


The World Outside Was Hungry

by tzigane, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: AU, M/M, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-25
Updated: 2011-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:49:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 58,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzigane/pseuds/tzigane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He supposed that he wasn't the only member of the psychology department who heard voices, nor was he the only one who did not attribute it to illness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Outside Was Hungry

**Author's Note:**

> I have two co-authors who humor me when I want to write the same story twice; Another version of [Be One Traveler](http://archiveofourown.org/works/290533).

The noise was overwhelming sometimes.

It was in those incongruous moments that his head threatened to crush in on him where his concentration drifted towards daydreams and idleness when class bored him. Suddenly, his idle moments weren't his, but everyone else's -- frenzied concerns about missing the bus, about failing the test, someone's sex dreams, idle moments of wishing for a hole in the floor to swallow and digest their Jungian learning professor. To say that it was difficult wouldn't be an unfair description -- not the coursework, although that was certainly stimulating enough when Charles wasn't in class, he was in the library, or at his small apartment down the street.

He supposed that he wasn't the only member of the psychology department who heard voices, nor was he the only one who did not attribute it to illness. Last year, Martin Haller had punched out a window and moved to jump through it before most of the lab stopped him, but the fact that their field attracted the unstable was... unfortunate, Charles supposed. It made for horrifying daydreams, though most of them ended when the professor declared the lecture at an end.

Sometimes he wondered if the lectures themselves weren't responsible for a certain amount of the insanity that went around. That and perhaps a certain amount of hypochondria, never mind what went on with the monkeys. That alone was enough to send a man slightly mad, particularly a telepath. For every professor who assured him that they felt no pain, no anguish, he knew quite a different story. It was occasionally hard to process, yet at the same time, the information yielded was immense. They were on the cresting edge of science, and he would partake of it in the lab in the morning.

It was disturbing, doing the kind of work they were doing while being full aware that the creatures were suffering. He balanced that knowledge with the gains they were making, and it was a knife's edge of awareness that bit into him sharply sometimes in ways that made Charles a little sick with himself, with everyone else in his graduate studies course. On those days, he did whatever he had to in order to get away, think of something else, anything else. Muddle through the thoughts of someone less concerned with the task at hand, people with grocery lists on the brain, his professors, anything at all. Anything until the connection, until his propensity to connect to the creatures eased up, and he didn't have to think about the metal spike holding their head still in anything other than an esoteric sense.

That was a grim turn of thought to have when he was on his last lecture for the day and it was only three in the afternoon.

For the rest of the lecture, he did his best to pay attention, not to drift into anyone else's thoughts. It lingered, got boring because he heard it before it was coming despite his best efforts. In the end, he resorted to making his own grocery list and deciding to take a walk during the afternoon. Groceries, cook dinner, and finish taking notes on the books he needed to return to the library on Tuesday. He still had four days, and that was plenty of time to take the meticulous notes he liked best -- page numbers down the narrow margin beside his thoughts so he could find the connecting thread if he ever needed to call upon one of the texts for a report. It was some small comfort that his academic success had very little to do with his ability to pluck the question from a professor's mind before it was voiced.

He was half lost in doodling in a margin when class finally let out and he could draw in a breath of relief, finish with all of the conflicting information flitting through the minds of his fellow students. He slipped his notebook and his books together and stood, heading for the door and freedom.

Charles moved in a bit of a rush out of the building, taking stairs with a speed that his professors envied -- young knees, which was such an odd phrase, and yet it was there in at least three teachers he passed quickly, taking the stairs easy and faster than most of his classmates. He wanted out, out into the open air and the mostly clear sky and air. There was just enough sunlight that he had to squint for a moment before he started across the campus to walk towards his neighborhood.

The nice thing about being so close to Columbia University was that he mostly saw other students on the walk back and forth. Their thoughts were wrapped up, occasionally deeply esoteric, and more than anything they were interesting. Sometimes things got personal, but then they'd passed him by and he could concentrate on the next human walking past and it was usually easier, less troubling. His apartment was in a building that mostly held professors and other professionals who worked at the university, so that was nice, too. Things were quiet, and having a corner apartment helped, even if he'd quickly learned that the temperature inside was particularly affected on days that the wind was high and the city was deeply cold.

It was worth it for the peace of mind.

There was a grocery store two streets down just on the cusp of a somewhat less nice area that made for quick shopping. It wasn't the most upscale place, though Charles had realized that upscale didn't particularly mean the fruit was better, just that he paid more for it. The only thing he needed to remember was to avoid the table where they put freshly expired food for discounts. He hadn't quire realized what the table was until he'd gotten a perilously stale box of crackers home once. He wasn't the best cook in the world, but he didn't have to be. He just had to be able to make spaghetti, or anything that was easily made with ground beef. He usually picked up bananas and oranges, and occasionally made fruit salad. Charles was dangerously close to being out of fruit entirely at the moment, and so he wandered straightaway for the apples.

There were the nicer looking apples, and then the less than nicer looking apples, and he eyed them for a moment, picking out the type they were before he settled on the fresher McIntosh. He was starting to fill a bag with them, when the back of his head jangled, a gnawing pressure over from where the oranges were. It wasn't a feeling he got that often, although often enough. Enough that he knew what it was, and that the feeling as well as the people with whom it was associated were increasing also. It was enough to prick him, make him look up, turn so that he could see further down the aisle.

What he saw was just another boy. Couldn't have been any older than Charles was, except his hair was white or maybe pale blond. The light was rather miserable in the place. He was staring down at the oranges, with a basket full to the top looped over his wrist while he counted his money.

The urge to speak to him was high, an unusual urge that tripped through him. He was catching echoes from the past wandering around in there, and so he closed his eyes for just a moment and dug deeper, trying to capture them.

When he did, he truly wished he hadn't.

Sometimes the associations were easy, and sometimes they were hard, and sometimes they were disturbing. He was looking down through the boy's eyes into his palm, only his fingers were filthy, crusted in dirt and blood, and there were five gold teeth in his palm, none of them the same size. He was sure that none of them were from the same place, knew it like the boy knew it, and he closed his fingers around them, looking around for a moment in a bleak brick room before putting them into his mouth, to the sides of his cheeks so he could still talk, hidden and his now.

It was enough to snap Charles back. Now, in reality, the other boy was looking at him, fingers closed tight over his money, staring hard.

"I'm sorry." It was out of his mouth before he could stop it, sincerely meant, and it made Charles blink. "For staring, if I was. I've just gotten out of class, and it was... a very long day." He managed to smile, dredging it up from somewhere as he held out his hand. "I'm Charles. Charles Xavier."

There was a somewhat complicated swapping of basket to the other hand, change stuffed away into a pants pocket, and the return stare didn't really soften. Charles probably looked bizarre, foreign to him, as he was standing there in a full suit with necktie. Couldn't go to class without a necktie, or most of the professors would have your head, particularly at his level. He was just a few steps away from being a medical professional, and he couldn't even manage to interact properly with someone who was probably a day laborer. "Erik Lehnsherr."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Lehnsherr. I've only been in New York a few months, and I spend most of my time with the same fifteen people every day." Charles glanced at the oranges and decided that he didn't particularly care for any of them, at least not today. Today, he wanted to learn more about Erik Lehnsherr and more about his talents.

Just for a moment, when he'd moved between the jangle of his head and the space that was vicious memory, he'd felt like the whole store was humming, singing at him. "You're at Columbia." It wasn't a question, and there was no real questioning from Erik. Somewhere in between looking at him and then coming back to himself, Erik had put an orange into his basket.

"Yes. For just a few weeks, really. I'm from near White Plains, originally. Not far, but far enough. It's been very interesting so far." And disturbing, and entirely what he expected, he supposed. "You're not from here."

"That's very astute of you." The accent surely couldn't have given it away, and the edge of Erik's mouth was curling up. He only smiled to the one side, because he was missing three teeth at the back on one side, but it had been worth bribing the immigration official to get out of Ellis Island, and Charles wished he didn't know that. "If all the students at Columbia are as astute as you are, this country is surely on a short timer."

Charles let himself smile back at him and shrug. "Perhaps it would be fair to say that I'm a bit different than the average student. Anywhere." As was Erik Lehnsherr, but there was no particular reason to tip his hand as yet. Instead, he moved on to the bananas, eyeing them speculatively. "And what do you do, Mr. Lehnsherr?"

"I repair radios." It was probably good work, better than hard labor, but there was another answer lingering at the tip of Erik's tongue. Curiously, Charles couldn't pull it from his mind before he said it. It had been a while since he'd had a conversation where silence was honest and not filled with the other person trying on different hats in the form of phrases. He was watching Charles, turning and half following him when Charles knew he'd finished his shopping. After that orange in the basket, he'd be broke. "And I study engineering at Columbia."

He couldn't help the grin that broke out then, pleasure at the answer, at the fact that he hadn't known it beforehand, hadn't heard fumbling for lies, or something that sounded better aloud than it did in a man's head. "That's truly excellent. It's nice to meet another student. One who doesn't work with monkeys as part of their course of study."

Erik shifted, placed his free hand at the edge of his hat, tilted it absently. "What exactly does one do with monkeys in class?" There was oddly a flash of what Charles assumed was a wiring diagram, but it wasn't substantial.

"To be honest? Nothing that anyone outside of the psychology department truly wants to know about. Ever. Some days, I don't want to know about it." Sadly, that was true. Most days, in fact. "How long have you lived in New York?"

"Almost two years." And yet he probably hadn't been in school that long. Of course, Columbia took either money or scholarships, and neither were easy to come by. "I was in Europe before that." He paused, and added with another low sideways smirk, "But the accent gives that away. So are you in the decadent housing halls, Livingston and the like, or are you in the area?" His English was quite good, Charles decided, for two years in the states. He had a passing thought that perhaps the boy had bribed people to teach him English, as well.

"In the area. I'm in graduate studies." Charles moved on a little further, reaching for grapes. He'd make fruit salad, once he had a few more fruits, some raisins, and perhaps some yogurt. "It's very difficult to concentrate in the housing for some reason."

"Too many people?" Yes, that would be Erik's first assumption. He knew something was up, and Charles could feel it, but perhaps nothing specific. Not that he knew what Erik's specific was. It was a bit like a game of cat and mouse, though Charles had no interest in being the mouse.

There were certainly worse things to be -- the cheese, for example -- but he had no intention of ever being anything less than the one setting the trap. He'd been in enough heads to know that it was always better to be at the top of the food chain, regardless of how kind one wished to be to those who didn't occupy a similar position. "Too many people, too noisy, too very many things, in fact." He shrugged. "I have an apartment a couple of blocks from here with very quiet neighbors."

"Lucky." Erik was bad at lingering. He shifted again, weight from one leg to another as he stood there, halfway trailing after Charles through fruit he'd already passed. Yes, he was the cat, for now. "I should... probably be going."

"I'm sorry, I... I shouldn't have taken up your time." Charles shifted his basket, and offered Erik his hand again. "I'm sure you have other things to do."

"Actually, I do not, but I feel odd socializing in a market. Perhaps we could meet again some other time." He took Charles's hand again, looking a little upbeat from how he'd seemed when he'd been staring hard at the oranges. There was still no side noise, nothing like sitting in class. If nothing else, Erik had a modicum of control over his own mind, and that was new for Charles.

That was worth pursuing.

"I was planning to make spaghetti tonight. Perhaps you'd be interested in having dinner with me?" It seemed forward, and perhaps also a little strange, but it was the first thing that came to his mind.

There was another jangle of thought that he didn't catch, Erik running rapid fire through scenarios, or maybe arguing with himself mutedly before he said, "Yes, I think I'd like that. I'll need your address, and what time." While Charles was willing to bet that Erik didn't live in the same neighborhood, he was within walking distance. There were quite a few poorer areas nearby, and it was a fair guess that he'd be tucked into one of them.

Charles smiled, and wrote his address down, tearing a sheet loose from his notebook and handing it to Erik. "I should be finished by six. It will be nice to have company."

Erik glanced at it for a moment before he pocketed it smoothly. "I will see you then, Charles." He gave a tilt of his head that Charles supposed passed for goodbye in some circles, and turned towards the bored looking cashier. Watching them chat had probably seemed very boring to her, but it was very exciting for Charles. He was going to have to be careful not to slip into Erik's head too much just for the blissful peace and quiet.

Decisively, he turned away and began choosing a few more fruits. He might as well hurry back. Things undoubtedly needed to be put away before his apartment was fit for company, and he would be very busy between now and six.

His studying could wait until later.

* * *

  
He'd felt that intrusion.

There was no question that it had been real and not imagined. He'd had to weigh that, but he'd felt it, felt old memories coming up hard and fast as surely as if someone had taken a pick axe to a water main. It had to have been Xavier -- he'd been talking to him, looking at him. First the memory, hard and sharp, and then he was there, watching him. Perhaps watching what it had done to him. It had felt a little like someone had pulled a string inside of his head and unraveled him a little with no care for how that felt. Of course he'd accepted the dinner invitation. It was unnerving, and a curiosity, and all he could think was perhaps he'd met another person like himself at last.

Upon returning to his tiny single room apartment, he'd put away the fruit he'd bought, and the handful of other things he had been able to afford. That left him only engineering work to contemplate, or his new acquaintance.

Given a choice, he decided to contemplate Xavier.

The possibility of someone else like himself had always been there. As a young child, his parents had forbidden him to speak of his talents. Not being stupid, it had become very obvious why it was necessary. After the war began and he went to Auschwitz, it had been even more inadvisable ever to question anything that made him or anyone else more different than they already were.

They all heard the stories of people who drew attention to themselves, who were picked during a Selektion. They either went up the chimneys, or to Block 10, and Erik knew what a treasure he would have been for Block 10. It was small size for his supposed eighteen years of age that had gotten him picked for the grim work that had kept him alive.

Teeth. He wasn't going to be able to shake that memory for days now. He would like to show Xavier what it was like to have unwanted memories rattled up. The fact that he was in the psychology department made him reluctant, for so many reasons, and yet.

And yet.

Someone like himself, someone who might have talents beyond that of normal humans. It was a remarkable idea. Theoretically, of course, it had been possible; possibility and reality were very different things, and Erik was very much a man who focused on reality.

There had just been a war. If there were more, how many of them had been killed in it? Snuffed out as children, beaten against walls until their screaming stopped, shot, gassed? How many had died on the front lines, both sides, died of starvation, died in firebombings? And yet Xavier was very possibly one.

Alive and well.

He ran water in his tiny kitchen sink, cupped it in his hands and leaned in to wash his face with it to wake himself up a little. It was his, the small place, his and his alone, and he was grateful for the privacy. No one was there to paw through his few things from home. No one asked what the necklace tacked to the wall was, and there was no one to whom he needed to explain it. No one asked about the state of the place. No one asked him anything at all, and that suited Erik just fine. More than fine, and he stripped off his shirt, deciding to bathe quickly. At least he could show up clean and reasonably dressed even if it felt like he was walking into a trap. He'd be vulnerable, and that was a thought that bothered him as he started to wash up. It was probably telling that he kept his showering soap on the edge of the kitchen sink. Money, and the ability to dredge through his mind, oh, what was he getting himself into?

Well, he'd go armed at least. Just in case. Even if he never needed it, he'd be able to feel it with him.

Once he'd washed himself down and pulled out clean clothing, he opened one of the drawers nearest the door and began delving into it for supplies. The drawer was convenient for the kinds of things he liked to keep -- nails, sharp bits and bobs, wires stripped of their insulation. Anything he could use if he needed to defend himself unexpectedly.

Some items he kept in his pockets, but there were enough cars and other metal items in New York that he never worried much about being able to defend himself if he was outside or in a classroom or at the small shop where he fixed radios and the occasional television at night.

He settled on the wire, wrapped it loosely around his wrist as if it were a bracelet. Copper was a soft metal, quick to yield, sharp enough to hurt, kill, maim, buy him time. If anything went wrong, he needed time above all else, and time was precious.

One day, the world would stop feeling like a threat to him, and Erik supposed that when that day came he would collapse from the weight of relief. When he was strong enough, then, then he would be safe. He wasn't strong enough yet. Maybe one day, he would be. Maybe he'd have power enough of his own, enough money, enough... just enough. Enough of everything. That was all he wanted, all he needed.

Just enough.

It was only five by the time he was clean, dressed, prepared. It was perhaps a twenty minute walk to the address Xavier had given him, and so he settled down with his engineering text to study.

The problem with texts was never the schematics of the actual work; it was the words used to frame the work, the fluff. There was too much fluff in his courses, and not enough meat, which could have been a powerful metaphor for too many things in Erik's life. He balanced a notebook on his thigh while he took notes, sitting propped up against the wall at the head of his bed. There was a little chair, but it honestly wasn't comfortable. The urge to sit in it only struck occasionally. Mostly, he put his boots on it to keep anything less than savory out of them.

Thanks to the lack of life in the textbook, he kept looking at the clock. Five after, seventeen after, twenty-three after. He gave up at the half hour, and stood to pull on his boots. Xavier would just have to live with the fact that he was early when he arrived. If he startled the man before he finished doing whatever he was doing, that would simply be tough for him. Erik tied the boots quickly, and reached for his hat. It was still warm enough that he didn't need his coat. Yet.

Yet, but he'd been in New York long enough to know that he'd need it eventually. Need it, possibly need a better one, which meant he'd have to go trolling for coins. It wasn't difficult, only time-consuming, and time was something in short supply in Erik's life.

He locked the door behind him, and headed downstairs. The building was old, and very noisy, full of odd smells and large families stuffed into small spaces. Mostly, he could ignore it, but it still made him deeply grateful for his own tiny room, and the fact that it was on the top floor. Hellishly inconvenient in terms of number of stairs, but tired legs were a tiny price to pay not to have someone pacing over his head at night. As it was, he clattered quickly down the stairs, through the narrow entrance hall, and then outside. The air still felt summery to him, though he was sure it would soon smell a little different, the warning signs of the sharp change in seasons.

Perhaps it was time to worry about coins again, sooner than before.

As he walked along towards Xavier's place, he idled near the edge of the sidewalk closest to the street, and the sewer grates. Dozens of coins spun up out of the dark, nickels, pennies, dimes, the occasional quarter, and Erik knelt down to pick them up without shame. By the time he had made it to the address on the paper, he'd managed to amass nearly four dollars in coins from gratings too tight for someone to pick up their dropped money. It was a start, and it was heavy in his pocket, jingling as he walked into the building. If he went back another way, he could probably find that much again, and then he would be that much closer to having enough money to buy a good coat to get through the winter. He hated being cold, and sometimes it felt like he'd never be warm enough again except, perhaps, in July. That was warm enough and then some.

Third floor apartment was easy to get to in theory, though the look of the lobby was.... almost unsettling, and he wasn't sure where the stairs were.

"Can I help you find something?"

Of course there would be a doorman there, watching him suspiciously, as if he was going to steal the brass off the door.

If the man kept looking at him like that, he might just do it out of spite.

"I'm here to see Charles Xavier." Hopefully the man would point him towards wherever they'd tucked the stairs and that would be that.

The doorman continued to eyeball him before pointing him towards a door near the corner of the room. "The stairs are there." He paused and then said reluctantly, "However, this building has an elevator. Just across there."

"Huh. Thank you." He stuck his hands into his pockets, and started towards the elevator, because. Because it was an elevator, and he wanted to see it. It wasn't the only one he'd seen, but it always seemed he never had enough time to appreciate them. They were all so very different, and three stories were not going to be enough appreciation.

The operator was standing there, a guy who couldn't be much older than Erik, looking bored and a little slow, perhaps. "What floor?" Yes. Both of those things.

"Third." Erik stepped inside, and opened his control a little. Not enough to do anything, but enough to feel it all seeping into him, to feel the shape of the car, the solid cable that connected it to the roof of the building, the minutia of the controls. In a few years, the idea of someone operating those by hand would be absurd, but for now it paid someone else's way in life, Erik supposed.

With a few motions, the elevator was on its way, and the rising feel of it was in his bones, in the depth of him so that he closed his eyes and concentrated on the feeling. Metal around him, metal below him, and it felt so natural. So right. It was the best feeling in the world, and it made him feel safe. Made him feel good, and when it slowed, he reluctantly opened his eyes again.

"Yeah. Lot of people are kinda uncomfortable in an elevator. Not me, though." The guy grinned at him. "Feels kinda nice."

"It feels very nice." That was an understatement. If he could wrap himself in that feeling, in that potential, he would. Some day. Just to have access to that whenever he wanted. The doors opened, and he had to step off, though reluctantly. Erik knew the number where Xavier's room was, but it didn't mean the floor itself had a logical number process.

"Most people don't think so for some reason. I mean, some. But it's a small space, and people are funny about 'em. Which apartment you want?"

He glanced back, tilted his head. No. There wasn't any feeling off of him, not like with Xavier. "Three-fourteen."

"Take a left. Head down to the end of the corridor, and then it's the last door down there."

"Thank you." Just a boy who spent his life in an elevator. It made sense he'd know where everything was.

He didn't hurry to three-fourteen, walking slow enough that he could get a feel for the build of the place. It was sturdy, solid, enough metal to make his senses sit up by the time he reached Xavier's door. For a moment, the idea of knocking was intimidating. Erik was very much out of his environment, but he was also deeply assertive of the fact that he was just as good as anyone else, ever. When he did, the knocks were firm and even and loud enough to catch Xavier's attention.

A moment after that, the door opened, revealing the very bald young man he'd met that morning at the grocer's. "Hello, Mr. Lehnsherr. It's very nice to see you again. Please come in."

"Thank you." Stepping inside was not as bad as he'd anticipated, though he turned to watch Xavier as soon as he was closing the door behind him. The man had a living room, and no doubt one or two rooms, and a kitchen off to the side. It was a house, not an apartment. "This is quite a place."

"Thank you." They were both being exquisitely polite. It left an edge to the conversation, to their meeting, that was a little uncomfortable. "I apologize for the mess. The afternoon got away from me, and I'm afraid I'm a little late with dinner. If you like, you're welcome to sit in the kitchen with me while I finish."

It was hard for there not to be an edge when Erik had worked himself up exquisitely for.... what purpose? It was a reaction, like breathing. He could pluck tension out of nothingness and wrap himself up in it more tightly than was sane. "All right." The problem was broaching it. "I'm not quite sure how to say this."

That smile was too knowing, and it made his teeth clench. "Then simply say it. I promise I won't be upset."

"You're like me." He didn't have a word for it, except talented. Inhuman, yes, but that was a word with enough slings and arrows attached to it. Jude was enough.

"Yes." Simple, precise, inexact. Maddening. A relief. "I am like you. Different, but still like you. The kitchen?" He turned, and moved through the living area, the small dining room, as if he expected Erik to follow him.

There was nothing to do but follow. "You were inside my head. I don't appreciate strangers digging through old memories. They're not yours to touch." With it confirmed, he could at least be indignant.

Shit, the kitchen was as big as his room.

Xavier reached for a strangely shaped spoon and stuck it into a pot of boiling water. "I do apologize. It's unusual for anyone to realize what I've done, much less to be able to confront me with it. Most of the time, it doesn't require any effort at all. Their thoughts are just there, all the time." He looked at Erik with an apology written on his face. "You were different. It was... an exceptional temptation."

Erik leaned against the little kitchen table, cross his arms over his chest. "Do you know what I do?"

"I'm just now beginning to get a taste for what you do. After all, you're the first Other human I've met, myself aside. I'm sure there must be others; I can feel them, just at the edge of my awareness. You were very much present when I saw you this afternoon. I believe your talents lend towards metals, the shape of things. I'm not sure, exactly."

"I don't know how to phrase it myself." But he had control, and it was always growing. He just needed time, and to get stronger. He needed to develop it. He held up a hand, though, and Charles's funny shaped spoon was in his hand and not Charles's, easily tugged away. "I feel wires. I feel metal interacting with metal, and the... magnetic fields around the metals."

Charles walked to him, and held out his hand, taking the spoon when Erik returned it. "That is very interesting. I suppose what you'd call me is a telepath." He turned back to the stove and reached for a second spoon, wooden, and removed a lid to stir the sauce. "It's a very busy world. That's one of the reasons I'm in this building. It's quiet, and my neighbors are mostly academics who tend to be completely wrapped up in their work. At the end of the day, that's vitally necessary."

He didn't think living in a place like that was such a hardship, though. There was an elevator, after all. "Are you always in people's minds?" Like he was always feeling the metal around him. Always on, and he might consider it like being trapped if he didn't cherish it quite so much.

"Sometimes, it seems more as if they're in mine." He was moving the pot of boiling water off of the stove and to the sink, lifting out the colander, careful to avoid the wash of steam. It was obvious he'd been cooking for himself for some time, and that was odd. Erik had been, but Erik was Erik, and Charles Xavier obviously came from money. "Yes. You're right about that, but my mother died, and my stepfather wasn't what one would call inordinately fond of me. We had a housekeeper, but after Mother died, I went on to school. I've been living on my own to some degree now for... this is the beginning of the third year. While I was at Harvard, I did have a chaperone, an older student who lived with me and taught me the things I would need to know."

"Apparently it took," Erik mused, watching him. He'd just learned from survival, learned what worked and didn't, tried to cook from memories of his mother. "Did your hair go at the same time you started to read minds?"

The wry tilt of that mouth said everything, even as Charles poured out the water in the pot. "Yes. It was remarkable, becoming a bald thirteen year old. As if being four years or more younger than the other students wasn't bad enough, I suppose."

"You seem to have lived." Erik watched him, tracking the motions, and perhaps he was zoning out a little, settling into the presence of the building around him, the walls, the bits and bobs in the drawers that led to a peculiarly comforting kind of situational awareness. The place hummed to him, a deep, freshly built tone. "You're how old now, and working on what degree?"

Charles was flushed a little, but that could be from the cooking. He slipped the spaghetti noodles back into the pot and rinsed the colander. "Seventeen. I'll be eighteen in a few days. I've just started graduate studies in psychology. The monkeys," he added, "are supremely disturbing."

"I'm sure they are." For Charles, and perhaps for him, as well. He had enough things that were incomparably disturbing in his mind that life in America had been supremely... calm by comparison. "Better monkeys than humans."

"Yes, well." The pan of sauce made its way to the sink in Charles's hands, and was added to the noodles. "They keep insisting that the monkeys don't feel, not the way humans do. And they're very, very wrong about that. The information that comes from the studies, it's very useful, but...."

But.

Erik cast around the kitchen for the plates, and moved past Charles to open the cabinet to his right to take down two plates. He might as well make himself useful, now that it was feeling... less like a trap. "Perhaps unnecessarily cruel."

"Yes. It reminds me in some ways of the things I've seen in...." In his head, perhaps, the weight of that pause heavy with unspoken meaning. "...books, the things humans do to other humans."

Books. He knew, even if he'd stopped, enough to piece Erik together, to take a little there and a little over here and a handful of gold teeth and put it together if he was bright. And Erik had a sense that Charles was quite a bit more than bright. He leaned up and brought down the plates, twisting to keep his eyes on Charles. "Books, it seems, are light on the subject, and prone to disbelief."

"I suspect so. I'm sure you can tell where the forks are, if you would?" He took the plates from Erik and began dishing out the spaghetti. There looked to be enough there to feed a family, or two teenage boys.

He wasn't going to turn down food. It would make his own last a little longer, stretch it an extra meal, and breakfast the next day could be light. Erik pulled the drawer with the silverware out, and took up two forks without touching them. They were roughly the same height, though he suspected that Charles was possibly taller. "There. It smells very good."

"It's also very easy to make. I tend to burn things, regardless of the recipe. It's a curse." But not his talent, and that made Erik curious, made him smile despite himself. Charles took a good long look at the forks and then moved out of the kitchen, putting the plates on the dining room table. "So when did you first realize you were... talented?"

"It was just before the ghetto. I had a knack for finding coins that no one else could. And then one day I caught a necklace my father had dropped. Without touching it. It wasn't controlled. It still felt like a luck, more than anything useful, until after the war." With a little more food, a little more sanity, he could work small miracles, and they felt like they were growing every day, by leaps and bounds.

They were both seated, and Erik was restraining himself, waiting until Charles began to eat before he did. There were so many reasons for that. "I plan to continue in other fields -- genetics, I think, possibly some form of biology, biophysics. For now, psychology is perhaps the best start for me." He shrugged. "I hope it will help, knowing why people think the things they do. I'll know what they're thinking anyway."

"So what have you learned about people so far?" A mind reader interested in the why behind the thoughts -- that was interesting. Theory and practice knitted together, and it made Erik wonder what else he could do. What they could manage if they bounced ideas off of each other. It wasn't as if there was anyone else Erik could talk to about it.

Once Charles started to eat, Erik picked up his fork to taste it.

"That most of them are more interested in sex and food than in why they do a thing. I'm not entirely sure that what people think have a direct correlation to psychological principles. Their actions, on the other hand, are distinctly different. I suppose that's the reason we torture the monkeys; to prove the correlation between actions and principle."

"But then you carry the research forward and suggest it can be applied to humans," Erik pointed out, once he'd chewed. "They all do it. It's the nature of science to over reach itself."

"It's the nature of science to do a great many things." Agreement, of a sort. "Sometimes, I wonder what science would make of us. That's the main reason I've decided what course of study to pursue."

"Oh. I can take a guess at what science would make of us." Erik's voice came out softer than he'd meant it to, but no less intense. It was hard for his brain not to churn up images of the bodies from Block 10, people sewn together, bodies chopped up, skin peeled off, parts removed with no sense of logic to it as far as Erik had been concerned.

"Yes." Yes, and Xavier was flinching across from him, just a little. Small wonder, for a mind reader. "I admit that recent events have made me... wonder." Wonder, and he was twirling his fork slowly in the noodles, thoughtfully. "It's one of the reasons I continue to work with the monkeys."

"So you can see what evils your fellow researchers can commit on the monkeys in the name of science, and extrapolate it forward to what your fellow researchers are capable of doing to humans?" Erik drawled, still eating. There was no reason not to enjoy the spaghetti, not when it tasted fresh and nice. He didn't usually make it himself.

"Or to us, yes." Yes, because that was logical, indeed, that someone might want to experiment on them. He was lucky to have escaped that particular danger thus far in his life.

Well, that was a lie. There was no small amount of careful planning, concealment, involved in keeping out of the public eye. "Or us. Whatever we are. What do you think we are?"

Charles leaned back, as if considering his words carefully. "Honestly? There are stories about people like us. Usually, people ignore them, or they treat it as something that isn't real. A fairy tale, if you will. But someone almost always knows a person with some kind of talent. They call them fortunetellers or make jokes about how someone always makes excellent choices on the stock market. They don't ever believe that it's anything beyond a joke, because most people don't feel they can afford for it to be."

"But do they have control over it? Or is it just something latent, a twitch of... of genetics that isn't all the way there?" Like it was in him, in Charles. Obvious and clear and undeniable. "Every year, it gets stronger."

"...Yes." Yes, and that pause led him to believe it was already very strong in Charles Xavier. "I think, truly, that this talent... it's a genetic mutation of some sort. If it's happened twice, at random, an ocean apart, then I suspect that it will happen again. That perhaps the number of... mutants, for lack of a better word, will increase as the population increases."

"More people like you and I." He was still wrapping his mind around the concept of you-and-I, of Charles being like him. "How do you practice?"

Charles leaned forward and began eating again, speaking between bites. "Well. The world is full of thought. Practice comes with blocking it out, so I'm afraid to say that I practice constantly. There's nothing else to do for it. And you?"

"My room is private, so I do what I like with the door closed. I sense.... what I'm doing when I'm working on wiring. I feel metal, and how the fields interact. It's a... noise, like having the wireless on all the time. It's not unpleasant." Sometimes it was very pleasant, and if there hadn't been an operator in the elevator he could have ridden it up and down a few hundred times without being tired of the feeling.

"That explains your interest in engineering, then. The metals, the way that you feel them, it would make things much easier to deal with, wouldn't it? In your field." Xavier's grin was very charming. "I suppose my talent explains the psychology, as well."

"Well, it wouldn't make much sense for me to reject what I enjoy most and go into... Veterinary school. Building things is very satisfying." Building, creating, shaping. He supposed that one could do it with minds, though he could mostly feel Xavier's fumblings through his own. It was the sensation of someone watching him through window blinds. "My question is how do you get through your courses if you're always hearing them?"

"Carefully." It was amusing, that they were making their way through the spaghetti in between this conversation. Erik wondered if it would be rude to go and get more. "I've discovered things about my classmates and professors that no one should ever know. Mostly, I've become accustomed to blocking everything that isn't purely auditory, I suppose."

"What do people think in your graduate medical courses?" It was just a point of curiosity, and there was no likelihood that Charles had somehow refrained from listening to them all together.

Xavier shook his head. "The same thing people think in pretty much any class. On the street. They daydream -- conversations they plan to have, rewrite conversations they already had, consider physical pleasures. It's pretty human."

"What do you think about in class?" The edge of Erik's mouth curled a little while he finished off the plate. So good to feel mostly full, a bizarrely basic need that he was sometimes too in tune with.

"Oh. Conversations I plan to have, conversations I've had. Physical pleasures." And yeah, that made both of them grin, because it was probably true. "Like I say. It's human nature."

"I'm not sure I'd go so far as to call us human." Was that a worn edge of his experience showing? He'd been called inhuman, less than human, for so many years. So many years that all he'd wanted for a long time was to be accepted. But acceptance wasn't right, blending in was still a lie.

They were more than human. And that felt disturbingly good. "No, but for the time being, it's best not to draw attention to the fact that we aren't. People... react badly to those things which are different." And he knew that Erik knew that he knew that.

Erik would worry about it when, if, they reached the point where they were solely self-referential in a feedback loop, like a circuit that only fed in on itself. "Not yet, no. Are you in my mind right now?"

"No." No, and Erik knew that. "I'm usually very good. People don't often feel me. I think you do, though. Isn't that odd?"

"It is. I want to know why. It was a little like seeing something out of the corner of your eye." Except inside of his head, and then once he'd focused he'd felt every piece that Charles had overturned.

Xavier laid down his fork and tilted his head. "Then perhaps we should do something about that. Experiment, I suppose. Practice, you said?"

"Yes." And why he was saying yes, he didn't know. He didn't trust, didn't let people close. Didn't interact except for the bare minimum, closed off, shut down because it hurt -- and he wasn't even a mind reader. But Charles was there, and like him. He'd never met someone else with that particular skill, and probably never would.

What did he have to lose, but himself?

"All right. But I think it would be better if we finished eating first. Would you like some more?" Charles stood, his own plate in his hand, and waited to see what Erik would say.

"Yes. It's very good." He stood, moving carefully, watching Charles. Sometimes he felt too old for his age, and there wasn't much question that Charles was the same way. "I'll have to try to cook for you sometime."

"That would be nice." He didn't demur, didn't try to avoid going to Erik's room, even though he had to know it wasn't anywhere nearly as nice as his own. "Hopefully your cooking is better than mine. Mine barely passes adequate."

"I think it's been dubbed as decent. I like it." Of course, he didn't have really discriminating tastes for food. Hot and edible were the basic requirements. When the spoon almost fell into the pot, he righted it without a second thought. "This is terribly exciting and mundane at the same time."

Xavier added some more spaghetti to his own plate, and then sat back down. "It's best to keep it that way, don't you think? The familiar and the unfamiliar, all at the same time. It helps us to learn more about strange new things so that we can become acquainted with them, which in turn leaves us open for more new experiences."

"You say that now." He'd lived his memories, so it was hard not to wonder what it would do for someone else to live his memories. Of course, there was the likelihood that Charles touched on horrible memories all the time, every day, along with the good. Living vicariously through others. He wondered how that felt, how it must be to be able to live outside of his own head. Sometimes, it would be nice, just to live with thoughts other than his own. He wondered if Charles ever thought that.

"I'll say it tomorrow, as well. If we don't learn new things, we eventually stagnate."

"I'm very much a creature of my own thoughts and company." Self-sufficient, self-tending, self-soothing. There were probably psychological terms for it, and Charles would know them. "But yes. Yes to learning." He slid back into the chair, intent on finishing off his second serving so they could get down to why he'd come there -- ability to ability interaction.

It sounded almost dirty, in his head.

They ate silently for several moments, hungry young men, just beginning to be sated. Xavier finished before him and moved to the kitchen, washing his plate, putting what little remained in the icebox, washing the pot, the pan. By the time Erik was finished, he was obviously waiting patiently, puttering so he didn't feel pressured to finish more quickly.

It was oddly aware of him to do that. Erik took the plate towards the sink, still watching Charles from the corner of his eye. "Well. How should we start?"

"Let's step into the living room. I think sitting somewhere relaxing is always a good beginning for most endeavors, and this...." He paused, thoughtful. "This could be a bit rougher than I'm accustomed to it being."

"Yes, it could be." Erik could feel him for a start, but that was a barrier to be conquered, wasn't it? With enough practice, he'd probably manage to move unfelt. Maybe. If he could understand the mechanics of what Charles did...

Maybe it would make a difference in how he understood his own talents. Maybe he would learn something new about himself, if he could just understand what made both of them tick somehow.

"The sofa is probably best. It helps to be in contact with the other person, if that makes any sense."

"It does." Distance probably took more effort -- it did for Erik, at least. The closer he was to the metal, the better he handled it. Erik wandered into Charles's living room, trying not to gawk.

His parents had been well off before the war. His father was well liked, a hero of the first World War. It wasn't that he was unaccustomed to nice things; only it had been a very long time since he had been in a room as nice as this. These days, he was only welcomed into nicer homes in order to fix radios or small televisions.

Xavier probably heard all of that, but he said nothing, simply sitting beside Erik when he was settled. "If it would be more comfortable, I could play some music. There's a radio."

"That might be easier." He needed to connect with people. He needed to connect with someone, because he'd been so very distant, so pulled apart from anything that could hurt that even this contact chafed. There was no logical reason for it, nothing except the fear that getting close would mean getting hurt.

Would mean losing someone, and he'd already lost too many.

Charles rose, and moved to a shelf set in the wall near one corner. He turned it on, and classical music began to spill into the air, clear and bright. "Would you prefer something else?"

"No, this is fine." Rather familiar, though he couldn't place the artist. He enjoyed classical music -- it had gotten classical somehow, after all. His mother had liked it, and so it was a small familiarity, like the touch of precious metals, learnt early on in his uncle's shop.

Xavier returned, and sat beside him. "Think of something that you don't mind sharing."

Before, then. Before. He started with his uncle's small shop, the dim lighting, the clean scent of metals, of old springs, of occasionally rust, of standing at his elbow and watching him fix watches while his father laughing bemoaned that he was doomed to become a craftsman and not a writer of policy. Being a craftsman came easily to him, and it made him wonder if it had come easily to his uncle, as well, if his sister Ruthie might have had the same affinity as he did if she had lived, if any of them had lived. There was only Erik, though, Magnus, and that left him concentrating more heavily on his family, on Ruthie and the rag doll his Aunt Ilana had given her on her third birthday.

He didn't know what had happened to it. In the grave with them, he supposed, because that doll had made it through the ghetto, always packed in her bag. When they'd fled, when the liquidation had started... Yes, he supposed it had always been with her, but the thought made him flinch because there wasn't really anywhere he could go in his memories that didn't lead down that track.

All roads led to Rome, and all train tracks in Erik's head to Auschwitz. He tried to shake it, because it was there in his head, which freshly pulled up hell of a thought about what he'd done, that touch-memory of stealing gold teeth out from under prying eyes as he searched the bodies like a carrion raven. The explosives they'd helped to pay for hadn't killed enough of the bastards.

He'd never kill enough of them now. Never be the one to send them rotting in their graves, and oh, he wanted to do that so very badly that he could taste it, like tears on his tongue, salty and bitter. It startled him badly when he felt a hand on his arm, and remembered where he was.

"I'm sorry. Perhaps this is a bad idea."

He startled on an inhalation that choked in his throat, and moved his hands fast to wipe at his eyes, palms pressing hard. "What are, what..." Dammit, dammit. "What're you doing?" Charles was in there, something was in there, watching, guiding, maybe. He wasn't sure, because it had stopped for the moment.

"Just looking. I... it's different. With you. I get wrapped up in your thought, and then follow it to its unfortunate conclusion." Unfortunate, ha, what a polite word for such a terrible thing. Maddening, really, and he wanted to tear at his hair, wanted something. Anything. To go home, except not to his room, and it was really a very stupid desire.

He didn't have a home. There was no home to go to. Even after the war, the best refuge he'd had was finding an American Jeep and sitting on the back end stubbornly, possibly hysterically, until one of them spoke enough German to help him make sense of their what the hell was he doing reaction. And that had been after weeks of living off of forest scraps and things left behind in barns (because their owners were dead, too, he was sure), too afraid to stop moving after the shooting had stopped.

Erik took a slow inhalation, trying to pull himself out of it. "Yes. Yes, it was all... very unfortunate."

"Not the best word. There isn't one. Not really, nothing bad enough." No, there wasn't, and he turned his face away from Charles, because it was bad enough, embarrassing enough, without the other man -- boy? -- seeing it on his face.

It was already dug into his skin, a trite summary of years of deprivation that had slid into horror that had... well. At least he was in America. It had been there or Eretz Israel, and he didn't feel any hope about that. A haven, maybe, but... But there had been no visas, and Americans were easy to bribe, which took him back to the first memories Charles had pulled loose. He pressed hard at his eyes, exhaling again. "The Shoah." The words felt alien on his tongue, more so than German ever did, but it didn't make his mind hurt the way the word Holocaust did, even if a burnt offering was uncomfortably close to reality in his mind. It was no offering their God wanted. "I should go. I have to go."

"If you're sure...." But he wanted to go, even if it seemed as though perhaps Xavier didn't want him to go. "Let me get you a drink before you go. The restroom is just through there." A kindness meant, and Erik mostly wanted to go. Instead, he nodded, and stood, still looking away so that he didn't have to face Charles. Not just yet.

"Thank you." He could at least wipe his face off.

It was going to be a long walk back home.

* * *

  
Some days were longer than others, and the last few had gone on that list for Charles. Classes were the same as always, the work was similarly so. He'd gone shopping again despite not being in need of any particularly grocery item, had lingered in the library, and hadn't slept well since he'd said goodbye to Erik Lehnsherr.

Being in his head had been different -- a peculiar feeling, more difficult to work his way inside, and definitely more intricate a pattern. The problem, of course, was that making his way loose had caused him some trouble. He hadn't slept well since the night they'd eaten dinner together.

He was having nightmares that weren't his own. He knew where they came from, but he had also picked up more from his trip inside of Erik's head than he'd thought. There were things, pieces that were threaded through it, people he'd lost, just. An aching, a hollowed out sensation of loss that made him wonder how it was that Erik had even said yes to his suggested intrusion in the first place.

And how he hadn't gone completely off of his head to begin with.

That was a minor miracle, even if Charles understated the issue. There were starving corpses staring at him from behind his eyelids, and the full awareness that Erik had been a particularly tall eleven year old boy when he'd arrived at Auschwitz, not the average height eighteen he'd been believed to be. Once he'd been separated from his family, he'd done the smart thing and lied.

Lied, and lied, and lied some more, and by some miracle he'd come through alive.

The odd memory about pulling the teeth out made sense now, now that he'd had a few drifting pieces settle in. It was the sort of gruesome thing Charles didn't think he would've been capable of, not even for his own survival. But for someone who manipulated metal with ease, sliding a thin amount of gold, plating over real teeth, had been enough to fool the person he'd bribed at Ellis Island, because he'd been detained there. His forged paperwork hadn't been good enough by itself.

Erik didn't actually exist, which was the only amusing thought Charles had from the whole thing.

It was getting more difficult to do that in the US, but it was undoubtedly still possible to say he'd been born at home, not registered for a birth certificate. Some of the Southern states had only made them mandatory during the twenties. It was entirely possible that he could fake that more easily than he could in fact immigrate, despite the circumstances, or say the documentation was lost in the war. That had probably been a frequent occurrence.

But Erik seemed to exist as Erik, mostly, inside of his own head. Whatever his 'real' name was, it was immaterial. Charles just hoped he met him again before he ran out of memory fragments to sort and sift, and Erik remained forever a mystery.

He was so caught up in his thoughts, in the idea of Erik as a construct and as a person, that he nearly missed him as he walked past. If it hadn't been for the faint brush of his thoughts, viscous, thicker than those of the humans walking past, he might not have noticed.

He pivoted, and startled after him -- no plan, no real forward thought of what he was going to do, just one student passing another on the quad when he grabbed Erik's arm. There was an alarming flash of rage in Erik's eyes while he jerked his shoulder away, before he focused on Charles. "Oh."

"Hello." Hello, as if that made any sense, really, and other people were passing them by, not even looking at them. "It's nice to see you again." Nice, well. That was a mild sort of word for the remarkable pleasure of experiencing those different thoughts again.

It was voyeuristic of him, he supposed, but Erik's whole thinking quality was different. It was like he saw everything differently, not just as a factor of his past, but different. "I, uh..." Erik looked at him for a moment, gauging him, weighing him, and Charles didn't poke into his head just yet, gave him privacy to decide. "I just left class. Where are you headed?"

"Oh, I was going to the library." Well. Coming from it, in fact, but he could go back again, particularly since Erik seemed to be headed in that direction. "After a minor pit stop, which... I can get to later if you're going that way."

"I was." Now, he didn't feel so sure, but that was all right. It was a little like soothing a feral cat, which was uncharitable and yet very close to the reality. Erik was disinclined to socialize, but he had the potential to be more sociable than Charles. "I'm not angry at you."

That was a great relief. Ill-defined remnants of tension flowed out of him, and that left him feeling faintly ridiculous. "I'm glad. I didn't want you angry at me." He was the first person Charles had met who was very much like himself, and despite his idea that there would be more people like them, more mutants, it had felt somewhat lonely when he'd thought Erik might be angry.

"I needed to wrap my head around it." And probably close open wounds a little, if that were even possible for Erik to manage on his own. "What are you looking for in the library?" Erik started to walk again, leading them on towards the familiar building. Campus had a familiar feeling, too familiar, perhaps, when everything and everywhere felt like a well-worn path.

He might as well be honest. It had its place. "You, in fact. I had hoped that you wouldn't be too...." Embarrassed. Furious. Charles wasn't entirely certain. "Put out with me, I suppose. Meeting someone else with similar talents, it was remarkable." Erik was remarkable, and that was worth the pursuit.

It had even distracted him from the monkeys.

It had actually put him right off of the monkey research, but there was no need for his advisor to know. But no, he was never going to be able to remain a researcher, detached from what felt like more functional uses. He was going to try to handle people, hands on. "I agreed to it. I just hadn't anticipated... correctly." Anticipated how much it would hurt or overwhelm him.

Charles licked his lips and nodded. "Yes. I can see how that would be so." See it, knew it intimately. Dreamed of walking skeletons in the night, wearing uniforms, dying of typhus, of dysentery, and wasn't that a shock to the system? Dysentery, for God's sake. "I admit that the experience affected me more than I had expected." That was quite a bit, in fact, because after the first few thoughts he'd picked up from Erik, he had known what to expect.

"I think it might be best to... leave my memories alone. In the future." That was a different thing than not angry, but almost as if he was still intrigued. "I need to get books if you don't mind watching me try to find them all."

"I don't mind." And he really didn't, because he'd get to dabble in those surface thoughts, get a feel for how Erik's mind worked; see if it was somehow related to the way his talent worked when he finally used it.

"All right." Erik looked sideways at him again, before he started to jog up the stairs. "How have you been?"

He followed after him, hurrying a little. "I have to admit, I haven't been sleeping very well for some reason."

"I never sleep well." But he had _metal_ , and that was a thought that he supposed was comforting to Erik, though it wasn't going to do much to soothe Charles. He couldn't exactly treat a box of nails or whatever Erik had as a security blanket.

They reached the landing and Erik paused, the door open so that Charles could follow him through. "Mmm. One of the reasons I live where I do is that my bedroom is at the corner of the building. None of my neighbors have bedrooms close to mine. Ordinarily, it's quite peaceful."

"Only now it's inside your head," Erik mused. He stopped inside the lobby for a moment, and just seemed extraordinarily happy to be there before he headed towards the back stairwell. It probably wasn't going to take long for Erik to find his books since he already knew what section he was headed for.

Then again, he could surprise Charles. Erik liked books, liked the feel and the smell of them, and enjoyed being surrounded by them. They made him happy, made him remember his father's study and all of the books that lined them. It gave Charles a secondhand appreciation of them, despite his own already inordinate fondness of them. Erik didn't seem outwardly bookish, but now that he was in the library it was perhaps a layer of himself he kept away. He was in Columbia, after all, without the usual money for it. Of course it was academic in nature, and it was stupid of Charles to think otherwise.

He'd expected to be led to the engineering section, but Erik turned a familiar corner. Philosophy.

"So," he said quietly, considering. "Is there something particular for which you're searching?"

"Not really. I like to read the titles on the spines and see if they interest me." Browsing the area where philosophers were laid to rest, then. Erik didn't seem to bother really looking at any of the 100 numbers, waiting until his sideways walk through one stack got him to 101.

"Philosophy depends greatly on wonder." Paraphrasing _metaphysics_ , which Erik knew. "Is there any philosopher you prefer?"

"William James." It wasn't what Charles had expected, but he was thinking German, dour, Nietzsche, Hegel, and a little prodding at that thought in his own head spilled over into Erik's. Erik liked Hegel, he just wasn't in a mood for it.

William James was an intriguing choice, the philosophy of reason, a belief in pragmatism that was interesting, that made Charles curious. Erik was certainly unexpected, fascinating. So often, men who preferred engineering were indeed very practical, and preferred reality to philosophy. "I've always thought James's philosophy to be a sort of... religion of realism. Practicality."

"It rejects religion, somewhat. It's a little... solipsist sometimes, but I might not be reading it correctly. Still, relativism." Erik palmed that book, and one beside it, and then went back to browsing.

"And the ethical dilemma? Making moral choices when there isn't adequate proof, basing one's decision on trust? Intuition?" Charles had his own ideas on that, partially due to his particular talents. If he had the ability to read minds, who was to say that talent wasn't latent in some way? Some humans might exhibit that via intuition. It was possible.

"Isn't intuition a form of relativism? It's what you know, even when you don't know you know it in a.... " He felt Erik dig for words, trying to string out the rest of the thought. "Cognitive, put it down on paper way."

Glancing around, Charles made sure they were mostly alone in their section of the library, and then lowered his voice to a whisper. "I've considered the possibility that intuition might be a sort of talent akin to mine, in those few who have regular leaps of insight."

"Have you?" Erik tilted his head down a little, possibly staring at some indeterminable spot on Charles shoulder. "Or is that a hope, that you're less alone than we are?"

Possibly. Entirely likely, even, and his mouth twisted upwards in a wry smile. "Most people want to be less alone in the world, I suppose. It's entirely possible, but think. There are two of us, and we've met, by chance, in this city. Statistically, there must be more. Many more, if we could just reason out a way in which to find them. Is it a talent inborn, or is it one developed through the years as a way of fine-tuning some other innate sense? I don't know. I wonder."

"Won't being a doctor make it easier to find out?" Yes, but it meant experimentation. He wondered what their blood looked like, compared to normal people. He'd have to find some way to test it without letting anyone else get a look at it.

"I suppose it depends on the type of doctor one becomes." A phlebotomist he could trust would be high on the list of things he'd need in order to do that. DNA was a very new discovery, and there were some suggestions that it carried genetic information. It was an emerging science, however, and blood would be their best bet. If he had the opportunity to look at it with one of the new electron microscopes.... "And how much trust can be given to the people handling the genetic materials necessary to the experiment."

"Well. As there's two of us, we might accomplish quite a lot if we work together on it." He had a feeling that Erik's idea of scientific was less scientific than it was engineering, make it work, but.

But.

It would be immense, having someone else who was different; who wanted to know, and Charles had a way with money. He could fund a lab for them if he had a little time to put it together, possibly start small and build it up. It wasn't difficult, not with the ability to pluck information from someone's brain. A walk down Wall Street would do it. "We need a lab, and some training."

Funny, really. He didn't trust lightly, didn't let people close. He had acquaintances, rarely friends. The joyous relationships of childhood had long since been left behind for the struggle between stepfamily, the loss of his mother. Erik was just roiling suspicion. There was an odd feeling that Erik wasn't sure whether he wanted to drop his books on Charles's feet and run, or kiss him -- scared and enthralled all at once, with a perfectly rational fear of needles. "That's what I've come to college for."

"Not that kind of training." He couldn't help but smile a little, because... well. He'd never had a man inclined to kiss him before. That was different, and perhaps he should be insulted. Charles had already lived through his stepbrother's accusations of effeminacy, his stepfather's unspoken insults about his attachment to his mother. Erik's unspoken urges weren't at all offensive, only different. "We can discuss it later."

"Mmm." Erik turned his back to Charles for a moment, scanning the rest of the shelves directly in front of him. "Well. This is enough for the weekend."

And there was opportunity for later, staring the bookshelf in the proverbial eye. Was it too forward, two invitations in a row? Very likely, but it seemed as if he had no other option. "I was thinking of taking a walk this afternoon. I have an idea, perhaps you'd like to join me?" It would be easier to discuss it walking down the street. People would only catch snatches of their conversation, not enough to make a whole picture out of it.

Erik might not feel so pressured if they were walking. "When? I have to go to work soon, but it's just a few hours."

"Now, if you'd like." It would be easier, and hopefully it wouldn't cut into Erik's work time. Charles wondered how long Erik worked, and how much time he might be able to devote to a long-term project outside of his undoubtedly already strenuous studies.

"All right." He'd probably just end up walking with Erik to his work, but that was all right. He'd been headed home to study for the night, and a little extra exercise never did him any harm. Erik turned a little to wander out of the stacks and back towards the stairwell. There was the temptation again to prod into Erik's mind, because it took control not to do so.

Still. Erik felt it, and it was much better to refrain from invading his thoughts without an invitation. "When do you need to be at work?"

"Four." Four, well. That was a long walk to work for Erik, Charles supposed. It could do. "It's mundane work. I've applied to get lab work here."

That would be good for him. Better than working on radios, although he might keep doing it on the side. Charles started down the stairs after him, pausing at the floor for the checkout desk. He waited patiently while the books were checked out to Erik, and then followed him out.

"So. We should try to come up with a coherent plan," Erik said as they started down the library's front steps. There were other students, but they were wrapped up in their own thoughts, their own needs.

Charles took a deep breath. "We need funds. I can get those for us, I believe, and private space, as well. I think the place to start is our blood." He knew anything more than that would make Erik shy away, and feared that blood alone might be enough. "I want to get a better look at it, see if there are any similarities, anything in it that might suggest we share some trait, something that would account for those differences, even if they aren't the same."

He felt the tension roil off of Erik, and then he nodded. "Well. We could start with two small samples and a microscope. Begin rudimentary and work our way up."

"I was thinking an electron microscope." It would be ridiculously, prohibitively expensive, unless perhaps he could buy time in which to use one. That might leave records of his having done so, and that made him nervous. "You're right, though."

Erik was quiet for a moment while they walked. "I think if you could get me the schematics for one..."

Oh.

That was a brilliant idea, and he nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

"Less questions asked," Erik offered. He shifted the hand he was holding his books in, matching Charles's pace. "I have a knack with design and precision." And lacked the resources to do much. And Charles was all resources and a good deal of brains himself.

They'd still need money, in the end. Charles had some, but he could always use more if they ended up needing anything more complicated. "When do you finish working tonight?"

"However long it takes me to fix seven radios in various states of disrepair. Seven or eight? In there." That was fast work, and he wondered how much faster Erik would move if he didn't have someone supervising.

"I'll find a restaurant. Bring something back to my apartment, if you're interested. Or I can bring it to your place." By then, he'd have a chance to research a few things, talk to a stockbroker. He'd have things in place.

"You don't know where I live." Which was just a matter of prying, but Erik seemed to realize that, and amended it to, "You'll end up mugged."

Possibly. "Then you're more than welcome to come to me again. Ignore the doorman. He doesn't particularly like anyone." Charles glanced at him and let his mouth twitch upward. "And John goes off duty around eight. In case you wanted to use the elevator more than once."

"That's particularly handy to know." Erik cut a sideways look at him, and then sidestepped another pedestrian. "I'm not being purposefully secretive."

"I know." And he did know, he understood that. It was Erik; it was the way that he was. All of it was explainable, especially considering the dreams Charles had been having. "I don't mind."

The fact that he accepted it meant he probably would one day see where Erik lived. He just wasn't going to push. "Good." Erik inhaled the way Charles might sigh, and then said almost brightly, "So, the question of the microscope will ultimately be how to grind the optics."

"I can probably get the optics without showing my hand." That would be easy -- he knew people to ask, people who could get him things.

"All right, but specs first." Erik nodded as he said it. "It's odd. I can feel you there, at the edge of my head."

"I'm trying very hard to remain there. It's tempting -- going deeper, learning more. It's a bad habit. Consider it to be from a misspent youth."

"I think we should try that again... sometime." Sometime, it felt, when Erik had the time to be useless for a while, which also felt a bit like never.

"Sometime," Charles agreed, and glanced over at him. "How far is the shop where you work?"

"It's another mile. Or so." Or so. Well, he'd have gotten his exercise by the time he got back to his apartment. "I'd make a joke about it not looking poor enough yet, but it's not funny when it's true."

Well, it was true, but Charles had never held poverty against anyone. "It's fine. Don't worry that I'll be put off by the appearance of things."

"I'm not worried. I'm comfortable with it. America is a very class-conscious country. It's impossible to avoid." And had done so well after the war, in ways that the continent wasn't even now. "I wish I could read bits of your mind as easily as you pull off pieces of mine."

"I'm not sure how comfortable I might find such a thing. I've been alone in my head for a very long time, and sharing with others...." He shrugged. "I can't imagine it. Perhaps sometime we could try."

"When we have a lot of time," Erik smiled. It was a slow smile, but a real one that touched at his eyes. "Now you know how I feel about the idea. I live... very much in my mind. It's been a refuge for a long time."

"Well. Perhaps now, you and I both won't be quite so alone." They came to a stop. "Friends?" He held out his hand.

"Yes." A rocky start, but Erik held out his hand to shake Charles's while they waited for traffic to pass so they could cross and keep going.

It was an excellent start. He found himself absurdly grateful for the fruit salad he hadn't yet made. "Good."

* * *

  
He didn't think he'd ever maintained a friendship for quite that long before.

Erik had, yes, but those had been friendships of situation, not of choice. There was very little that tied him and Charles together except a common state of mind, a common separation from reality, Erik supposed. They were not normal, they never were going to be normal, and they had never been normal. Neither of them tried to hide it or subsume it, and there was something glorious in just embracing the fact that they were different. Mutants, Charles had suggested.

It wasn't just the magnetism, Charles had pointed out, or the mind reading. Erik was strong, absurdly healthy, enduring and quick to learn pieces of an entirely new field; Charles was healthy, strong, cunning, and multifaceted, and while he did live vicariously, he had a wide world inside of his head as far as Erik could tell. They were the superhumans those who had tried to snuff his life out so many times had claimed to be themselves, a bitter irony that hurt.

That was something to remind himself of as he ran up the stairs to Charles's apartment. It was early in the morning, and he didn't want to activate the elevator by himself when the doorman could see.

The doorman had something against him -- that he was poor, or that he was a Jew, or that he was going to see another young man on the third floor, who could say? Erik had decided that it was best to avoid the matter altogether, to come in quietly, and hurry up the stairs. A confrontation would be pointless, and would likely just make it more difficult to visit Charles than he wanted it to be.

He'd moved past wariness and suspicion and towards missing Charles when he hadn't seen him often enough. He still felt like a cat slinking through his mind, but he didn't mind the cat as mostly it had stopped knocking books off of the shelves and into the coffee cup.

He realized as he let himself in with a hand placed gently on the doorknob that it was so early Charles might still be sleeping.

There weren't any lights on and he wasn't in the kitchen, so that was a fair bet. He paused there, and finally chose to shut the door quietly behind himself, turning the lock without touching it. He thought about making coffee, and wondered if that might not wake Charles just as much as noise.

Decisions, decisions.

The problem was that they were using Charles's apartment as a lab and a workshop. He had a rucksack full of pieces and parts and scrap that would _become_ more, so Charles was lucky that Erik could set it down silently. That Erik cared about whether he'd wake Charles or not.

Still, coffee was a slow, subtle way of waking someone.

He moved into the kitchen and searched out the percolator. It only took a few minutes to get it settled, and he laid cups and saucers on the counter, found the milk and sugar to put beside it. He knew how Charles took his coffee, and wasn't that something? Sometimes, he didn't know what to think of the fact that he had a friend, or that he didn't worry that Charles was only telling him what he wanted to hear because he could read his mind. He had early on, but there was an earnestness about the way he responded that made Erik believe it was true. Body language was much more difficult to hide when someone lied.

Charles's body language came honestly. He occasionally said things that made Charles uncomfortable and it was written on his face that he was unsettled, unhappy, un-something. And sometimes Charles said things Erik didn't want to hear, but after a day or so Erik shook it off.

He and Charles didn't argue -- not yet, but he could tell that time was coming. Another month, another six months, and they'd be comfortable enough to yell at one another. Charles would fling his hands into the air in extravagant gestures, and Erik would clench his fists, do his best not to punch him, slam his way out of the apartment so that the neighbors complained. He'd walk until he cooled down, and find Charles waiting for him, apologetic, in some unexpected place.

The comfort of that was more disturbing than the actual thought of it, and the beginning glurp-glurp, glurp of the percolator working was a distraction that relieved him. Perhaps Charles would be up soon, would keep him company so that his mind didn't distract him quite so badly.

The thing with being friends with a telepath was that Charles's mind was truly, truly always on, the same way that his own never stopped its internal dialogue of considering and weighing the environment around him for threats. With Charles there, he could almost relax a little, let his mind seep back and reach out to feel the humming familiarity of metal and wiring around him.

Even the coffee pot was distinct, and when he focused, he could see the wires that led up to the heating element, how they connected to the switch, on the background of a world of electromagnetic fields.

Shuffling footsteps caught his attention, made him look up at Charles. He looked... well. Younger than Erik felt, pillow lines on his face and across his scalp, eyes puffed with sleep. "Morning. You're thinking heavily for so early in the day."

"I've been up for a while." It was as good an explanation as any that he had. "Coffee?"

"Please." Charles's slippers shuffed a bit over the linoleum, and he sat at the small table, head dropping sleepily onto folded arms. "Mr. Armitage had something of a revelation late last night. Something about his current project. It was inspired, but he's very loud when he's excited."

"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that. Was it anything useful?" Probably not, but Erik always asked. He pulled down two mugs, and poured Charles's coffee for him, a little sugar enough to take the bitter edge off.

"It was very likely brilliant." Charles sounded sad. "But it woke me from a sound sleep around three, and I'd been dreaming. The beginning unfortunately mixed in, and nothing after that made any sense."

Well, at least it was Saturday. That meant no classes, and while Erik had to work, Charles could try to nap.

"Ahhh. You need to shield your mind somehow at night," Erik mused, leaning over to pass Charles his coffee cup. "How did the test go?"

"Passed." As if there had been any doubt. Charles lifted his head and took the cup, obviously grateful. "And the final grade for the group project?"

"I hate group projects." Erik turned back to get his own cup of coffee, grabbing milk from Charles's icebox. That Charles had an icebox felt a little remarkable. "It was an A."

"How much of it did you rework once the others had left their finished parts in your hands?" Of course Charles already knew. It was a delicate politeness to ask, a pretense on the part of a telepath in order to seem normal.

"All of it," Erik drawled. "With a note at the end that I made corrections. The professor seemed to appreciate it."

As if anyone ever enjoyed being part of a group project. Most of Erik's fellow students came from money. They were desultorily following in the footsteps of their fathers, and some of them resented the hell out of him. It had been trying.

He'd rather work on his own. There was nothing he'd experienced of engineering that was cooperative -- not in an honest way. Teamwork was a matter of who was the loudest about their idea and browbeating the rest into it. He added sugar, and then turned off the burner before the rest of the pot went, too.

"I brought the parts I need. We could finish this weekend." Well, there were some parts, but there were also raw pieces he needed. The diagrams had been more difficult to get their hands on than the lenses. Charles had made some phone calls once they knew what they would need. Things had arrived periodically, well-wrapped in soft cloths, cradled in wadded up papers. Erik had brought in things he had found, raw materials, mostly. They'd tinkered late into the night most weekends since they'd begun.

"I'll get dressed and we'll get to work," Charles murmured. "Breakfast first?"

"Breakfast. We'll see what I scrape up." He had no problem cooking when he was at Charles's because the ingredients were fresh, and Charles cleaned up when he was done. Omelets were easy, since he had the milk out already.

Companionable silence stretched between them as he made breakfast. Charles was slow to wake, more so than usual, but it had been a late night, so Erik couldn't blame him for it. Instead, he chopped vegetables, shredded spinach, and after a little time and effort, presented his friend with what he thought might be one of the best omelets in New York this morning.

"That smells wonderful."

Well, that one could get without paying for it. "Good. It should taste just as well as it smells." He set it down, and then slid into his own chair. Erik had gotten over the fact that he seemed to have his own designated spot at the two-seater table. "So, this weekend for sure."

The excitement of building such a fine piece of equipment, piece by tiny piece, had been exhilarating enough. The fact that they'd be able to look at things, really _look_ at tiny parts of themselves, try to judge what might be familiar, what might be the same, was enough to eclipse that. "It's a miserable shame we'll have to go for classes next week. I expect we won't want to leave it."

"I dislike having to leave, period." Breakfast took less time to eat than it had to make, but Erik stretched it out with coffee, alternating between the two.

Oh, Charles was giving him a funny look.

"Then why not stay? You practically live here when you aren't working or at Columbia. The study's small, but it could be emptied. We could find a bed. It would save a great deal of time, in the long run."

"You're just tired of eating your own cooking when I have to work." Erik twitched an eyebrow at him, but. But. "I can pay rent."

That was a more calculating thoughtfulness, less a funny sort of look. "Or you could buy groceries, and we'll call that rent. The apartment belonged to my mother. There's only upkeep involved, so it's less than you'd think, the cost of living here."

Well. If it was already bought and paid for, that made Charles's suggestion a little easier to swallow. "Groceries, then," he agreed, lifting the coffee cup in a mock salute. "But getting the microscope working takes precedence to clearing the study."

His friend seemed entirely pleased with himself, and why not? Erik was rather pleased as well. "Priorities are, of course, priorities." He ate the last bite of his omelet and rose, plate and cup in hand. "If you're done, I'll wash up and let you get started, since you're the one best suited to the fine tuning."

"Mmm. I have some very good steel I need to shape and measure." He picked up his coffee cup, and set his plate and fork in the sink. This... this could work out. It could work out very well.

* * *

  
Erik didn't make a bad roommate. He was neat, clean, and conscientious about space and privacy.

The doorman hadn't spoken to Charles in over a month.

Still, it hadn't been difficult, and it wasn't trying, having someone else living with him. He thought it was a great deal easier than dealing with Kurt or Cain, and it was nice to have someone to putter around the apartment. Having a little noise in his surroundings seemed to help him block out the thoughts that whispered around him all the time.

There was the problem of Erik's thoughts, halfway shielded all the time, but that other half was something else. He had to focus on not getting any spikes or spillover from him. Most of the time it was excitement, something easy to handle. Sometimes, he felt the way that Erik looked at him; a low simmering feeling that didn't actually confuse Erik at all.

That was funny, because it did confuse Charles, quite a bit.

It wasn't that he hadn't felt that sort of admiration from someone before; he had, only it usually came from a female someone, and that was the oddity of it. Well. Perhaps not oddity -- he'd seen himself in the eyes of other people for the last several years, and the word effeminate had come up on more than one occasion. It wasn't anything he could help, so he hadn't worried about it, but now he had to wonder if all of the people who'd secretly thought he seemed a little limp at the wrist weren't right.

And Erik seemed... well, nothing of the sort. People in the building who'd met him had found Erik alternatively charming and frightening, either delightful or a ruffian who needed not to darken their doorstep. But no one looked at him -- broad shoulders, strong jaw, hard eyes -- and thought, _'There's a poof'_.

Well. There were worse things than questioning his sexuality, and it wasn't as if curiosity would be enough to prove those people right. It wasn't as if it mattered if it turned out they were because it wasn't anyone's life but his. Still. They had a working partnership, and Charles wasn't ready to throw a spanner into the works as yet. Besides, Erik might very well decide that hitting him was just as good as kissing him in an effort to deny he'd thought it at all, even if he didn't think that was altogether likely.

The route to the easy answer of yes or no was the one that _would_ get him punched, ninety-nine percent chance, and that was reading anything more than overflow thoughts from Erik without discussing it first. For a while, Charles had doubted himself, his abilities and precision as a whole, until he'd tested on a few classmates, a teacher or two, and they noticed nothing. It had led Erik to guess that his sense of magnetism might've made Charles's actions perceptible to him. Not that he could stop him, but he was aware of him, cognizant of Charles delving any deeper than the very surface, and they had something of an unspoken agreement that Charles wouldn't. Wouldn't, so he didn't, but it was there, unspoken, not stated, and yet completely present in a way that made Charles's fingers itch.

Erik didn't have any hours today, and while the option was there to spend the entire day in unfettered design and tinkering -- so far the microscope was functioning, albeit poorly, though Erik had plans for tuning. And tuning. And tuning -- there was also the offer Erik had made to let Charles just wade through his head, as long as he had time to get himself back together.

It was a thought, at least. Something they kept meaning to do, and yet also kept avoiding altogether. Charles couldn't blame Erik for it. It was inevitable that he'd turn up turbulent, unpleasant memories, because there were so many of them, and so few good ones. It made him reluctant to go digging because he didn't want to hurt his friend. He'd kept delaying and kept delaying when truly they were the only training ground either of them had. His silverware was never going to be the same, particularly since all the forks stuck to all the other forks, and all the spoons stuck to all the other spoons. It was how he knew Erik hadn't gotten to the knives, and also that his mother had given him the stainless steel flatware and not the silverware.

If he couldn't get Erik comfortable with him being in his mind, he'd never see how he used his powers.

It was almost easy then that by the time he stepped out of the bathroom that morning, Erik was in the living room, cross-legged on the sofa, spinning three small balls of who knew what metal in his hands.

"Morning." And there was coffee in the percolator, a cup beside it, sugar already in the bowl in the correct amount. "I suppose we have plans for the day?" He could already tell that they did, but it was better if Erik told him there were.

"I'm still thinking," Erik mused. In two days, they both started finals, though Erik wasn't studying very hard, and Charles was going to do just fine on his essays.

Maybe letting him think a bit longer was the thing to do. "I'll go get coffee. Have you eaten breakfast?" He knew he had, but it was polite to ask.

"French toast. It's warming in the oven." The balls twisted on their axis, spinning as if they were chasing each other around the track. "The only thing I have to do this weekend is buy groceries." Well, that was an opening.

Taking it just seemed like the thing to do. "If you'd like, we can try experimenting. Letting me deeper into your mind, I mean, since you'll have recovery time. Or we can walk to the park." Spend time in the sun.

Charles was sure of the answer, though, and so he waited.

"It's still early. We can walk in the park later." He watched Erik very faintly nod. "I might regret this. You might regret it more." But they still had to see what happened. Well, Charles did. He was fairly sure his mental stamina was up to it.

"After breakfast." That might be a poor idea, all things considered, but eating would give both of them time to settle their heads into place. He'd appreciate the opportunity to try and shield himself from Erik's raging emotions, if that was at all possible. "Keep me company, and tell me the news." The paper was undoubtedly waiting on the kitchen table, as neat as it had been when it arrived despite his friend having already read it.

Erik was exceedingly tidy and easy to live with in that regard. He left bits of metal around him like a... a security blanket, Charles wanted to say, but he also swept off with them. Nothing stayed left somewhere for long if it was metal. "It's supposed to snow this week. The UN is making a fuss over refugees from Palestine. They've started an agency."

"Hmm. Well, it's not surprising." The UN liked starting committees and agencies. It was the nature of governing bodies. "How do you feel about it?" Charles walked towards the kitchen, keeping an ear out for Erik's answer.

"I think my people have a limited sense of irony, though I don't have the capacity to feel much empathy right now," Erik murmured. He was probably going to get more coffee, so it didn't surprise him when Erik showed up in the door.

He opened the oven door and pulled out the French toast, already neatly on a plate, the oven just warm enough that the food was still warm but he didn't burn his hand. "The world is full of atrocities. The more the population increases, the more atrocities there will be, the more well-publicized they'll become, until the entire world is numb."

"There's the difference. I think the world was numb to start with. Occasionally, some horror mounts high enough that it feels." Erik waited for him to sit down rather than try to dance around him to get to the coffee pot. "And then it stops feeling again, at the soonest convenient time."

That was an excellent point. Charles poured maple syrup over his toast, leaning against the counter with a hip. "I'd like to disagree with that. I really would." He wasn't sure that he could, though, because it was at least a little true. Perhaps a little more simple than it could be, but Erik had a particularly pessimistic view of many things. It wasn't unjustified, either. He'd been battered by something that would soon be history, in the same way that every atrocity before it was taught -- a book and a few stories and an analysis of all sides and all actions that were so separate from living it for everyone who'd been alive then. That emotional connection would fade with generations until it was as dry as Napoleon's conquest was now.

"I would, too." Erik stretched a little, absently swinging one leg at the knee while he refilled his cup.

They'd be heading deeply enough into the territory of the macabre soon. It wasn't good to begin the day this way. "And I suppose you've already read the comics, as well, since you usually begin with the bad news and gravitate towards the lighter."

"Might as well get it over with," Erik agreed, slouching into his chair at the table. The little metal balls were in Erik's free hand. Well, on, running over his fingers and around them like liquid that defied gravity.

Charles ate standing up, watching the way those balls danced, as if fully aware of who was in control of them, as if they delighted in it. Perhaps they did; he could neither know nor say, but it was fascinating to watch all the same. Erik was always working on his precision, his control, and his own odd exercises might not have been the most scientific but there was no denying that he was gaining leaps and bounds in control because that was new, and interesting to watch. After a moment, Erik smirked a little, and quirked an eyebrow at Charles before he stopped them and gathered them into his hand to work together into one solid piece.

Show off.

"You're getting better." It was an understated acknowledgment, and that smirk spread to a grin. "All right. Much better. I suppose if you have it, you might as well flaunt it."

"Being here has been good for me." He was sure it wasn't just that, but having someone to talk to, to think things through at, had helped Charles immensely. He was sure it had to go the other way.

Erik's skill at sculpture still had much to be desired. Well. Not everyone could be an artist, and so what if he seemed to prefer blockier, more pragmatic shapes to others? "It's been good for me, too." He'd been eating better, and he no longer worried about his sanity, about whether he was hearing voices or self-reinforcing an unbelievable delusion. Before, every once in a while, he'd wondered if he was just deranged, but Erik floated metal around like it was nothing so what was there to disbelieve? Everything he did with Erik was verifiable by Erik.

"Good. I... am going to put the sofa cushions on the floor."

Huh.

Charles finished off the rest of his breakfast in short order, and took coffee into the living room with him when he was done. The cushions were on the floor, the coffee table was pushed out of the way, and there was space for him and for Erik, right there in the middle of the floor. "I assume you want to get this out of the way, then."

"The anticipation is worse than actually doing it," Erik drawled, leaning back on his hands. There was a vague sexual implication to what he said that made Charles flush.

"Let's hope that's the case."

"Let's," Erik agreed, lifting his eyebrows at Charles. He was tense, and radiating tension. He'd set his metal worry balls aside on the table, just out of easy reach, though no metal was actually out of reach from what Charles could tell. It was better not to think about that much. After all, bullets were little more than metal bits with the proper propulsion behind them, and he had a feeling that Erik was more than capable of creating that kind of force.

He settled down on one of the sofa cushions, crossing his legs so that he could look across at Erik. "If anything feels too terribly off, let me know."

"Yes." He shifted his posture, sat up a little and knitted his hands together like it might stop any overreaction that could come before words. If he could just get Erik comfortable with him being in his head, if he could just help him control the flow of memory a little....

Reaching out, Charles laid a hand on top of Erik's, and closed his eyes.

The inside of Erik's head was chaotic at the best of times. Expecting an invasion intensified that jumble, and made it difficult to concentrate, to pinpoint any of the many memories that jumped up and demanded attention by not wanting to be seen.

Memory was a funny thing. By thinking about its need to be hidden, not thought of, the brain checked the item and pulled it out of the inventory while Charles focused just to touch one with any concentration.

The first one he brushed hurt, not a sharp pain, but a low dull ache, and it was just a picture of a girl with a necklace, a frozen image of her, and then it blurred, and she was standing behind barbed wire.

That was never good.

He tried very hard to avoid those places, the ones that hurt, the ones that were locked away in Auschwitz with some part of Erik that wasn't ever leaving. It was best not to poke them too hard, to let them stay where they were, and not hurt him any more than he had to. Instead, Charles gently led the way past that and touched lightly on current thoughts. There was a grocery list building in the back of Erik's mind; random bits of engineering that almost gleamed with the beauty of his excitement.

They were flights of fancy, some of which weren't articulable yet. Erik had capacity and potential beyond comprehension and no focus. There was too much to do, too much to be built, and he probably wasn't going to go get a job with NASA after school, though he could have. Should, maybe, because there were improbable plane designs with sleek small engines nestled just up under the body that pivoted for landing like a helicopter.

That could wait. They could talk about those later. Now, he wanted to touch whatever it was that made Erik's talent work, that part of him that controlled metal, the electromagnetic fields. He suspected it was somewhere in the mind, but he didn't know, couldn't know yet. He had to look for it and try not to be assaulted by random memories and thoughts on the way.

Most people didn't seem quite so crowded with memory. It was almost a shame that Erik's memory was so very good, because there was such a plethora of horrible images. On the way to what he hoped was some sense of Erik's power, he stumbled across Erik pulling teeth out of a body before putting it on a conveyor belt, a tingle of the feeling of him using his power, almost a faint below the senses humming. But Erik heard it. Erik, he was realizing, heard that noise all the time, like a shadow at the edge of one's eyesight.

While Erik had said that before, there was hearing the words and then there was hearing the noise.

It was growing with every second he spent, a buildup of pressure in his own head, just behind his eyes, and he thought he gave a sound, protest, something like it. He didn't know how to contain it, how to quieten it off. Erik in his memories, Erik in his head, looking at him with ancient eyes, eyes that had seen everything, and Charles shook his head to try and get the buzz to stop. It was just there, and now he was sliding through memories like a flip book of Erik using his power. So many damn teeth, bits of jewelry stuck in orifices for safekeeping, Erik flinging bullets from an American ammo dump at a gathering of German PoWs, but imprecisely. What felt like every car, bus, boat Erik had ever touched was there, the signature of the mechanics imbedded in his mind, humming from the different tones of metal.

It took a while, bringing himself to the top of that, dragging his eyes open, drugged with the feel of it, the taste of metal at the back of his mouth. "It's like that all the time with you. It's... I can't...."

He could taste metal, and there was no way Erik could be sane with all of that noise, with all of that heavy presence of the world around him imbedded in, linked to him.

Charles hadn't expected, when he opened his eyes, to find Erik leaning over top of him. Apparently putting cushions on the floor had been a good idea after all. "It's like what?"

"The metal. It's... everywhere. All the time." All the time, and Charles didn't think. He just leaned up and over and put his mouth against Erik's in a split-second decision that he didn't think about, didn't contemplate, just did.

He felt the thought that followed more than he heard it, maybe. Perfect. Heard and felt it, from Erik, clear as a bell while he leaned back into Charles, pushing him down onto the floor.

Thinking was out the window, lost, and he didn't care. Didn't care at all, because Erik was over him, pressing him down, and he'd wanted that. He'd thought about it, he'd worried over it, and it didn't matter. Not a damn, not a single fretting moment, because this. This felt better than almost anything he could remember, and perhaps he should be worried that he liked kissing Erik better than he'd ever liked kissing Anne or Gweneth. Or not worried, as the case might've been, because Erik had a hand at the back of his head, and there were thoughts there, thoughts of nakedness and hands and cock and oh, Charles didn't think he looked like that from behind but maybe he was wrong. And then Erik was thinking about his mouth, and sliding his tongue against Charles's lips.

That was incredibly good, and he let his lips part, invited Erik inside. He wrapped a leg up and around a thigh to keep them safely locked together, and pushed up, just a little. Just a little, and that was remarkable. The pleasure of it might just kill him. He couldn't grind his crotch against a girl's -- it was impolite, to say the least, it wasn't done, and most of his dates had ended either prematurely or very chastely. This.... This was nothing like that, because Erik pushed back with more pressure, and broke the kisses to kiss the side of Charles's jaw.

"Dear God." That was exquisite, and he dropped his head back, let Erik get closer. There was nibbling involved, and he was going to embarrass himself, maybe both of them, because he was going to come in his pants.

There was a distinct possibility that Erik wouldn't care at all if he did that. It was dizzying, now that his head had cleared, free from the sound that had made thinking impossible, and transitioning into raw sensation of a different type, Erik shifting to drop down onto an elbow so he, oh, could pull at Charles's undershirt. Yes. Yes, and he tried helping, only they got tangled together a little. He'd have laughed, breathless and a little desperate for touch, only he didn't think Erik would take that well. Not at all, so he held it back, and they finally managed to get it over his head together.

Charles didn't often let people see him without clothing. The hair he lacked on his head was lacking on his chest as well, and he was so pale that he probably glowed in the dark. Erik didn't care, he could feel that, knew it. He more than didn't care, he _liked_ it, and that fact stole away his breath. He could feel that want, that enjoyment, as hotly as he could feel Erik kissing down to his collarbone, fingers smoothing exploringly over his stomach and sides. Erik bent a knee, keeping close against Charles as he started to explore down.

"I'm going... I'm...." He was. He wasn't going to be able to bear it, to hold out, if he kept touching that way, and a shudder worked its way through him. "Erik. Erik, I...." Oh God.

Didn't care, wanted to make him feel good, wanted to feel good, wanted touch and closeness like he needed water. He pressed in against Charles, let him rub up against him and kept kissing him despite it, kept kissing him after Charles came all over the inside of his pajama bottoms.

Every motion sent shivers of pleasure through him after that, made him shudder and shake against Erik, fingers stroking against his shoulders, trembling down his back. He'd never felt anything like that, not in memory, not ever, and he gave a low moan when Erik's hips started moving steadily against his thigh. Charles shifted, tried to offer him a little more purchase, and took every kiss Erik gave him willingly.

Every motion slid over him twice, high points of Erik's enjoyment bleeding over and making his own dick ache and twinge in impossible sympathy when Erik's hips lost their rhythm, stuttered and slowed.

Afterwards, the pleasure stretched thin eventually, letting in insecurities from both of them until he decided to put a stop to it. "I think you've killed me with pleasure."

Erik shifted, sliding an arm tightly around his waist. The enjoyment he got from that was just as palpable as the grinding. "That... would be very unfortunate if I had."

He licked his lips. "Because then we couldn't do it again." Making jokes with Erik about corpses was simply a bad idea, at best.

Erik liked how Charles felt warm, comfortable, trustworthy, beautiful, words that Charles would be hard pressed to ascribe to himself. Erik stretched his leg, and shifted, settling his hips to Charles's left side instead of on him. "We're going to have to do this again. I, uh..."

"I'm glad you want to do it again. I was, um. I was hoping you might. I'd been... Well, there had been something that made me think, perhaps, but I didn't want to chance it." He let a smile sneak up on him. "I didn't know how you'd take it. All things considered."

"You're the mind reader," Erik drawled, settling in like he was comfortable. "I didn't want to.... make the first move. I wasn't sure."

Well. And neither was he, mind reader or not. "Neither was I. Sometimes what I discover is a secret to the other person even if it seems open to me. I'm glad that wasn't the case." Reaching over, he snagged his t-shirt, and contemplated cleaning himself up before it dried and stuck to his skin. Erik probably needed to do the same.

Erik stretched out, eyes half closed, focus on nothing in particular. "I'm comfortable with what I am, on all counts."

Yes. Yes, he was, and that was truly excellent, a magnificent thing. Charles scrubbed randomly beneath his pajama bottoms, and then dragged it out, wrinkling his nose. "Would you like the other end of my shirt?"

"You're looking at it like you're planning to burn it," Erik drawled. That sated feeling that was seeping over from him was nice, soothing. "No, I'll just change."

"That would involve actually getting up." He wasn't ready to do that yet. Not even close, and Charles stretched out, yawned. He wondered who the girl was, the one with the necklace that Erik had hung in his room. Asking would be rude, and he didn't want to poke at anything painful. It would come to mind again, and he would know.

He just needed to be ready to snag onto it when it happened. Erik twisted a little closer, still comfortably stretched out. "We probably should. Or we could spend all weekend doing this."

Huh. Well. That was a thought. That was a damned good thought, actually. "Stress relief for upcoming exams, then?" Charles would love to do it again, and then again. And then perhaps one more time.

"It might be better than studying if it gets you to stop worrying about some... third order, meta level of worry about your mental processes." Erik's knee nudged his own. "It might be optimal to try naked this time."

Dear God. "Naked might kill me, if I thought about it very much. I suppose it's better without clothing. Maybe even in a bed?"

"Yes." He could almost feel Erik's vague plans for the day derailing and being shelved, because person to person contact was a thousand times more important to Erik than refining the grocery list.

Truthfully, he could understand that. His own plans for the day, whatever they might have been, were long forgotten. "We could shower first." Or just go straight back to bed. The idea gave him a thrill.

"Or we could shower later. You might really want it later." He might really want a lot of things, but Erik was not some fainting girl that he had to worry about bothering if he took his pajama pants off. The other boy started to get up slowly, stretching as he sat up.

"Have you done this often?" It was on his mind; not because he was jealous, exactly. More because he wanted to know how much Erik knew, if there were different things about this kind of sex, things he should know.

"A couple of times." So more than once, but not a regular occurrence. There was a thought of an older man that slid out of coherence, but it had the texture of a good memory. "I do like girls. Well. The idea of them, conceptually."

Possibly because he'd been expected to, and Charles knew that muddled feeling. He'd never been the kind of man to push a woman, and he understood that a great many men did, especially young men. It was expected, just as it was expected that she might slap a man or welcome him. One never knew, exactly.

Charles had never pushed. "I think we can agree on that statement. More or less."

And there was that thought -- that flash of face again, Magda, the necklace. Well, he had a name this time, and the memory had a painful quality to it. Erik had been how young? Not that it mattered, because he was standing up and offering his hand to Charles, and Charles reached up and took it.

One day, he might be a flash of thought, a glimpse of shared history at the back of Erik's mind, but for now... for now, they were very much a thing of the present. That was enough for him, for both of them.

For now.

* * *

  
Sleeping with Charles had broken quite a barrier.

It hadn't changed the dynamic of the place, not much, but Erik felt like it had changed him a little or knocked him askew of his previous path. Or both. Before, Charles had been another mutant, someone with whom to socialize, someone to trust. Now he was starting to reveal that he was... fun, handsome, good in bed. Someone Erik was willing to let into his mind.

That was worrisome, in some ways. He hadn't trusted anyone in years, and maybe it was foolish to allow himself that kind of confidence in someone. Charles seemed to be aware of his waffling feelings about it and simply let him be. There was no prying about it. Charles just let him work it through on his own time. Trust had never been an emotion that had gotten him far -- and on the other hand, it was past time he got over feeling sorry for himself. His life was improving drastically, even if he was sharing an apartment with a mind reader.

Who actually, it seemed, had friends who weren't figments of his imagination.

Charles had made vague mention of a dinner party for Christmas, and Erik had seen how he'd waffled about it, especially when he mentioned Roderick, who was apparently a bit too happy about some of the monkey experiments. He'd said, "He's a bit of an ass. All right, very much an ass, but he's... Inside his head, he's different."

And Charles would know how people were at the root of themselves, tolerable or not. Erik knew he wasn't outgoing or even passably social, but there they were. He'd promised Charles he'd take his word on it, and he'd play along with the dinner party.

What could it hurt, after all?

They'd gone to the grocer's, and there had been good-natured quibble about what to cook. Erik mostly kept kosher; it was tastier to him, and Charles didn't mind, was just as happy one way or the other. They hadn't discussed the menu overly, just made fairly simple choices. Charles had gone down to the Bazemore's bakery and bought a cake, and fresh loaves of bread. It was the little things -- handling dairy separate of meat -- that made things taste familiar to Erik. It was just as well that Charles preferred tomato based everything in anything, to what Erik was fast considering the 'normal' American taste. "How did you explain me to them, again?"

Charles shrugged, and straightened his jacket. "I didn't offer them any particular explanation. You're my roommate. That's enough, isn't it?"

"Good enough for me." As long as they bought it. Charles no more needed someone to help with the rent than he needed a hole in his head. "And yes, I know you heard that."

"Well. It was a bit unavoidable, honestly." He was grinning, looking at straight at Erik. "But it's not as if they know that or as if it's any of their business. Roderick might say something sharp, but then, everything he says is rather cutting."

"If he says something, you know that I'll... say something right back." There'd been no attempts by Charles to get Erik to promise good behavior, because he either would or he wouldn't, and he was inclined towards would.

That got him another shrug, and then he reached over and straightened Erik's jacket, as well. "Give as good as you get. He'll appreciate you more, all things considered. Well. His girlfriend might not. We'll see."

"What was her name again? Juana?" He didn't know why Charles was fussing with his jacket, but he'd let him. Between the two of them, Charles was more likely to give up the game than Erik thought he was.

"Mmm. She was in nursing school for a while, but I think she's contemplating going into WAF. She's much nicer than Roderick, frankly. But you'll like Gordon and Vilja."

"I see." Erik reached out, ran his hands over Charles's shoulders in a gesture that was to firm him up as much as comfort him. "It will be fine. It's only a party. That you are throwing."

He didn't have to be a mind reader to know that Charles was nervous. "My mother used to throw these fantastic dinner parties when I was young. My father was still alive then, and I remember hiding in the coatroom, watching everyone go by. I don't think I'll ever manage anything as good as she did, but I'd like it not to be horrible."

"Just four guests." And Charles was a social creature. Erik leaned in, bussed a kiss against his mouth as a promise of more to follow much later in the evening. Much later. "I'm going to burn the chicken if you don't leave me alone. Go pace a circle around the sofa."

The tension had been high, and it felt good to get away from it for a moment, to allow Charles to fret to himself while Erik puttered in the kitchen until a knock came. He heard Charles going to answer it, letting someone in, and he slipped the chicken back into the oven for another few minutes before peering into the living room.

There was no logical reason for him to fret, because since when did Charles really give a damn about what people thought? Perhaps he did. Maybe it was just Erik projecting his own attitude on Charles as an assumption. He pulled the glasses down to finish setting the table. "I forget there's an actual dining room set."

"Mm. I know. We tend to use it for studying." Charles was explaining to a guy with glasses, and a girl with short, dark hair, curled over the ears. "I'd like you to meet Erik Lehnsherr, my roommate. Erik, this is Gordon Briggs and Vilja Hojem."

"Hello." The girl had an accent, and she reached out, offered him her hand. "It is very nice to meet you."

She was pretty, and very clearly European -- pretty without the freakish amounts of grooming American girls seemed to commit on themselves. He took her hand, and bent down to kiss her knuckles. "A pleasure to meet you, Vilja."

"Ah, I like this one," she offered, and grinned at Gordon. He was eyeing Erik thoughtfully, and then looking at Vilja. Finally, he offered Erik his hand as well, and shook it.

"It's nice to meet you."

He smiled as jovially as he dared, because he didn't want to use up all of his good will early. "I haven't met Charles's classmates until now, so it's very good to meet you."

It was, really. Gordon seemed a little vague, looking around, and Vilja seemed bright, interested. "Would you like any help? I am quite good in a kitchen."

Charles laughed. "So is Erik. I could get everyone a drink, if you'd like?"

"That sounds like a fine idea. It's just getting the rest of the serving ware out, won't take long."

It wouldn't, and Charles gently led them to the living room. Erik could hear them conversing and figured that Charles had gently prompted them to go with him. Ice clinked into glasses, and another knock came at the door.

He set the forks down with hardly a thought, and then unlocked the door before he put his hand on the knob to pull it open. "You must be Charles's other guests."

"Yes, and what are you, the butler?" The ridiculously angelic blond at the door was lucky Erik didn't break his nose.

"Roderick!" Sharp-voiced, and he probably didn't get to date many nice women, considering. "I apologize. I told him not to be a creep, but he can't seem to help himself. I'm Juana, and you must be...?"

"Erik, Charles's roommate. I hope you're going to be a research psychiatrist when you graduate," Erik deadpanned, holding the door open. "Charles is getting drinks for Gordon and Vilja.â€

"Oh, good. I haven't met them yet. Roderick, _try_ to be a human being, and not a flat tire? I know it's possible." Oh, yes. Definitely a woman with the ability to keep him in hand, even if she couldn't keep his foot out of his mouth.

Erik lifted his eyebrows at Roderick as he came in, and closed the door behind him. "Just through there."

Juana wrapped her arm around his and smiled up, tilting her head. "C'mon. You can introduce me around, and then you guys can start talking about your monkeys."

Whatever she saw in him, well. It was without benefit of being a mind reader. Roderick smiled a little, not unpleasant. "Well, Gordon's just been approved for funding to start on a project he won't stop talking about..."

It was a relief when they passed through into the living room, murmuring vaguely back and forth until Charles offered them drinks, as well. Erik went to get the chicken out of the oven, and decided that he'd finish everything before he spent any more time with their guests.

It was easier for him that way, less time spent with the mundane humans Charles learned with and had no doubt surpassed some time ago. He set the dishes out on the table, taking his time. There was no reason to hurry, not when Charles had things well in hand, and Erik didn't particularly care to expend charm on new people. It was Charles's apartment, and Charles's party. He hadn't invited anyone, not even the fellow from the Czechoslovak Republic who was helping him to destroy the engineering grade curve.

"Um. Are you sure you couldn't use some help?" It was Vilja, standing awkwardly nearby, smile tentative. "I find it a little disturbing, the things they do for the sake of study."

"It's not to my tastes," Erik murmured, glancing over at her. She had a faint accent, but only just. It wasn't even an accent, just a shift in cadence. Maybe she spoke another language at home. "Do you want to help me pour the wine?" He had to get it open first.

The relief was there, and he did wonder about what they might be conversing, that it had driven her away. "That would be fine. Thank you."

"What do you study?" He asked it casually, while he carefully started to work the corkscrew in. She looked smart, and he was hoping that neither of the girls were planning on being professional stenographers.

"Oh, literature, mostly. The other girls all seem to want husbands, but I think I would like to do something else. Journalism, perhaps. Politics interest me. The world interests me, truth be told. And you?" She reached for the glasses, and gently lined them up, as if to have something to do with her hands.

"Engineering, with an emphasis on mechanical. I don't understand people, and I don't want to -- I'd rather make things. Build." What was an effective engineer but a well-paid craftsman?

"Mmm. My cousin Olaf, he does things like that. Not that he's studied here, although he and his wife have been here for several years. Since before the war, actually. He..." She waved a hand. "Visualizes the way things should be built."

"Good job?" He liked to hear about other immigrants who were okay, who'd passed for assimilated and gotten into society all right.

Vilja grinned at him. "Pretty good, considering Americans don't seem to believe other countries can have educated civilians. My family's Norwegian, and Olaf came here not long before the war. My parents have been here since before I was born. How long have you been here?"

"Three years and a bit." And sometimes, he sounded like he'd just gotten off of the boat, and he knew it, ruefully. "My family was mostly German Civil Service before the war. Not everyone's a farmer." He offered her the wine, and she took the bottle from him.

"Ah, but if no one was, then what would we eat?" She began to pour, carefully. "My auntie's husband is a farmer. I've been to visit, and had to gather eggs. I don't think I'm cut out for the job."

"I had an uncle who had a farm. It was nice out there." Erik eyed the wine, and then glanced over the table. Well. It was the best effort, and he didn't think any of Charles's guests would mind anything that wasn't perfect. "But no, getting eggs straight from the source was... interesting."

Vilja laughed, and the sound seemed to attract her boyfriend, because he appeared, hovering near the door. "They peck, yes? You'd think they knew you were planning to eat their babies."

"They were covered in _filth_ ," Erik pointed out, still faintly horrified. "I was eight and no one had told me that was where the eggs came from."

"I tried to explain it to a friend of mine when we came back to the states. She still won't believe that it's true." Gordon stepped inside, and the sound of his step had her turning towards the door, tensing until she saw who it was. "Hi. I'm sorry to have abandoned you."

"Vilja was quite all right." Erik looked past Gordon. "I'll be back. Time to herd Charles in here, I think." And handle the less than likable Roderick. Erik closed his eyes for a few moments while he walked, following the familiar feel of the room before he opened them when he stepped into the living room. "Dinner is ready."

"See?" Roderick started to speak, and was promptly elbowed in the side. The look on Charles's face was exquisitely entertaining.

"Oh, good. Can I help with anything?" It was probably an offer in hopes of getting away, Erik figured. Then again, perhaps he was reading too much into his own general dislike of Roderick.

"No, everything's ready." He waited, letting Juana and Roderick pass him, because it gave him time to search the man for metal to tweak.

Charles slipped up behind him, and Erik nearly jumped when he 'heard' it. _I'm afraid Roderick is a bit too fond of some of his experiments._

He was still trying to work through that sort of contact, so he had to focus more than he wanted to so that he could 'respond'. _I don't want to know. Or what he was 'seeing' about._

Amusement was easy to feel, easy to send. _He still thinks you're here for cooking and cleaning duties. He's a remarkably good at seeing things that aren't there and missing some things that are. He could be a genius, I suppose, if he weren't so very devoted to psychology. I suspect he'd do better in another field._

 _Little does he know that if you'd made dinner, they'd all be going home early._ Erik shook his head a little while they stepped into the dining room.

"Excuse me," Vilja was saying, shifting to the left, smiling at Juana, and they danced for a bit. Gordon was holding out a chair, letting Vilja sit down and gently sliding her closer to the table.

It was the little things like that that caught Erik's attention, tucked away to build the broader picture. He glanced at Juana and Roderick, and tried not to smirk while he took his own seat and cocked an eyebrow at Charles.

"So. I think we're all settled, and before we eat, I'd like to propose a toast." The entire table reached for their glasses. "To companionship, and learning, and a greater understanding of the world around us."

It was a very high sentiment that Erik couldn't help but agree with. He lifted his glass, and murmured agreement as he clinked his glass against Vilja and Roderick's glasses.

"Dinner should be enjoyable. Erik's cooking is amazing, especially considering the fact that we'd all be eating badly cooked spaghetti if it had been left up to me." Well, that or fruit salad with mayonnaise.

Vilja laughed. "Yes. It's always best if someone can cook. I'm quite handy in a kitchen, but my sister burns water."

"I don't think that's technically possible," Erik murmured, sitting back and picking up his fork after he took a sip of the wine.

"Well, if the water was impure," Gordon shrugged, "but it's not exaggeration. You shouldn't be able to use toast as a charcoal pencil."

Roderick snorted. "Sounds like Juana. I'm a fairly meat and potatoes sort of man, myself, and last weekend, there was an attempt at roast." Juana didn't look as if it bothered her that he was discussing it.

"He says attempt because I completely destroyed it, and so we had cheese toast instead."

"Well, that sounds like a palatable alternative." Erik started to cut into his chicken, looking over to Charles.

"Juana mentioned that you're going to be TA-ing next semester," Gordon offered, gesturing his fork briefly at Roderick.

"Mmm. Yes, I was thinking I might like to pursue professorship at some point. It's a good way to see how I'll take to that, I think. I mean, I do have some problems with your basic idiots, but it can't be that bad, can it? I mean, it's Columbia."

Charles was smirking. "Oh, I think you might surprise yourself," Erik drawled, taking another sip of the wine.

"I was going to say the same thing. Undergrad... It's a 101 course, Roderick. A lot of people with no knowledge at all."

He waved his fork in Juana's direction. "Yes, but they got in, so obviously they aren't stupid. It shouldn't be too bad."

Except for the part where it was going to be completely horrible, in point of fact, and Charles knew it even more than the rest of them. Vilja shot Gordon a look and then rolled her eyes back in Erik's direction.

It was hard not to laugh, but Erik smirked and shook his head a little. "You're going to be teaching them concepts that are very basic to you. I think I wish you luck."

They all did, or more likely didn't. Either way, it was obvious that no one else thought it would be easy.

Charles cleared his throat. "So, I hear that you're thinking about going into the WAF, Juana."

"I'm going to fly." Not _'I want'_ or _'I'd like to'_ but. Going. "So. Yes."

"Officer?" Erik knew the answer before he even finished the question, but it still felt polite to ask.

"That's the plan, anyway."

Roderick made a noise. He couldn't tell if it was dismissive or distressed. "I told you, you don't have to join the WAF. As soon as I finish school...."

"As soon as you finish school, we'll get married and I'll have your three kids and a beautiful house, and then I'll kill myself with my head in the oven, Roderick," Juana deadpanned. "No."

Wow. He looked sort of devastated at that, and everyone else was uncomfortable. It was obviously a long-standing argument. Vilja cleared her throat. "I, ah. I went to see my cousin Olaf a few days ago. His wife, Olga, she just had their second child. They're so excited, especially since their first died very young."

"That's good. That they're happy." Juana looked over everyone at the table, and added, "It's just that I want a career, as well. I want to _fly_ , and if anything else happens, then it happens."

Roderick's jaw was set, and he emptied his wine glass. "I don't understand why being someone's wife isn't enough for you. I'm going to be brilliant, and feted before this is all over with, and that... that isn't enough for you."

 _Well. You're right, they're certainly interesting, Charles._ Erik ate another bite, watching Juana look for her words, and it probably wasn't his place to get involved. "I'd think if you loved her you'd be more worried about what makes her happy. If Juana wants to join the WAF, good for her."

"Yes, yes, good for her, and where does that leave me? Us, it... Really, it's none of your business at all, Mr. Lehnsherr. After all, you answer Charles's door and cook his dinner, and really, what, you're going to enter the WAF next?"

"I think conquer the world is more likely, but I might design planes that the WAF would use." Erik wasn't going to let the man drag up his ire -- he was going to crush him with wit and not fists. He certainly wasn't going to do anything with his fillings.

Much.

Vilja was looking at Gordon, and Charles just seemed pained. "Ah... more wine?"

"Yes, thank you." They spoke almost simultaneously.

Erik idly wondered if Juana was digging her heel into Roderick's foot. But she leaned forward a little, and held her wine glass out to be added to the refills. "Charles, you said you were going to be leaving the monkey research for a more clinical group in the new semester?"

Charles nodded, and kept pouring. "Yes. I have to admit, working with the monkeys... Well. It's been very educational, but I feel like something of a sadist. I think clinical pursuits might be more to my taste."

Well, that was.... very good news, actually, as far as Erik was concerned. No more stories about the electro-shocked monkeys reacting badly to the shocks. Who needed to run an experiment for common sense? "Well, I'll miss you in the lab," Gordon murmured. "I think we all will. You've been the favorite in class for a long time. I'll be staying, though. We still have a lot of work to do."

"Hopefully, you'll learn something that's worth the sadistic bits," Vilja offered, and tilted her head towards Erik. "The chicken is delicious. I hope you'll share the recipe with me -- I think Olga would love it, too."

"I'll write it down later. My father used to cook this, actually, though I'm hesitant to call it an old family recipe." Vilja was easy to talk to, someone who smoothed things down. His sister had been like that with other people.

"We are learning a lot about how environment shapes mental illness." It seemed out of the blue, but for all he knew, Gordon was suggesting that he was mentally ill due to his father's chicken.

"Mmm. Yes. It's for the good of science, Charles. I'm sorry you won't be continuing with us. You're very good at it," Roderick advised.

"I think Charles will do well in a clinical setting. He has a way of getting through to people, that even I have to admit is effective." A certain determination and sense of manner that would suit him well as he got older in the field. Charles never, well. Seldom acted his age.

Vilja seemed to agree. "You're just the sort of person it's easy to talk to. It's almost as if you can read my mind!" That declaration brought laughs from all around the table. Only Juana seemed uncomfortable about it.

"I'm sure if he could, he wouldn't," Erik drawled, eating his green beans.

"But it would be fascinating!" Roderick waved his fork around, poked it into green beans. "Just think of all the leaps we could make in psychology, profiling, figuring out illnesses...."

"Pffft. Every day thought would be boring, surely?" Vilja shrugged. "Grocery lists, arguments you had with someone tumbled over and over in your head, half-thought fantasies of what you might have said. Unimaginable, really. Do you suppose it would be something like fortunetellers? My cousin Olaf's wife, Olga, she sees things sometimes. Things that are coming. It's the reason most of my family made it to England or America before the war began."

 _See, Charles. If all else fails, there's always fortunetelling._ "You didn't have to be a mind reader to see the political changes. You just had not to pretend it was going to be all right," Erik drawled. "Though your family was lucky."

"Fortunetelling is low-level fakery," Roderick asserted. "It's all common sense answers and telling their mark what they want to hear."

Vilja wilted a little, but didn't back down. She simply tore another strip of chicken off and looked across the table at him. "Think what you like. Olga saved most of my family from danger, and it wasn't the first time. I'm sure it won't be the last."

 _I suspect the next World War might be started over our dinner table._ 'I'm sure she has. After all, 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy'." Very true, that badly appropriated quotation.

"And maybe one day science can explain that, too," Gordon shrugged. "Just because we don't understand it doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

"Chicanery," Roderick asserted again around a mouth full of sweet potatoes. "'s all... tomfoolery. No way is that legitimate."

Charles cleared his throat. "Erik, the food is delicious."

"Thank you, Charles."

"I don't see why it can't be legitimate," Juana murmured after a moment of chewing. "I mean. Captain America."

Roderick snorted. "That's science at work, good hard American science. There's quite a difference between science and that sort of deception."

"And if science could explain people capable of seeing the future?" Vilja asked. "Would you still call it fakery?"

"I can't see how you could." It was good that Juana was speaking, seeming a little less like she was going to stab Roderick in the leg with a fork.

Vilja laughed. "I assure you that given a chance, your friend there would. Doesn't matter, though. One way or the other, I believe, and that's enough for me. Don't you think?"

"I think you're quite right to believe," Erik murmured, leaning forward to pick up the wine bottle.

"How did you meet Charles? I roomed with Roderick for a while, but..." Gordon let that hang. They were in the same field, and clearly he didn't anymore. It had probably been find a new place to live or commit murder.

He wondered how quickly Gordon had gone scrabbling in order to live with someone, anyone, who wasn't Roderick. "He's still living with James and Carey, but..." Vilja blushed prettily. "We'll be looking for somewhere soon."

"Does that mean you're getting married?" Juana asked, almost slyly.

"Should we offer toasts, and congratulations?" Charles tilted his head forward.

Gordon laughed. "Well. We're trying to keep it quiet. Our families know."

That wasn't quiet by any definition of the word, but Erik compressed his lips together. "To the soon to be happy couple, then."

"Hear, hear," Juana offered, and she raised her glass, Roderick raising his silently beside her. It was sweet, and much nicer on the whole than the argument over Juana and Roderick's potential marriage. He suspected that if they married, there might be death on the horizon, but he could be wrong. He'd been wrong before about that.

Sometimes people just lived to make one another miserable.

The rest of the party was fairly smooth after that -- dessert, Roderick being sharp and more or less an ass, Gordon being silent, Juana and Vilja trying to mediate everything, and Charles... Well. Charles was very quiet. It was somewhat worrisome, and yet Erik knew he'd get an ear full when they left. The thoughts must be flying thick and heavy.

* * *

  
 _"I wonder what can be gained with this voyeurism. We are looking for information, yes. This does not need to be watched for the raw data, though." Vavrin stretched, getting up out of his chair as he did so. The two bodies were strapped on tilting tables in front of them to allow for rotation to keep blood circulation smooth, to keep atrophy a little lower than it might otherwise have been._

 _"Call it curiosity." The department head was watching, eyes narrowed behind thin lenses. Vavrin rather thought he liked to hide behind them, mostly from Mathison's wife. The woman was a hellion even now that she was retired. If she'd had a dick, she'd probably be a general instead of a retired colonel._

 _Even though she didn't have one, Vavrin suspected that Mathison regularly took it up the ass from her. "Yes, well. Now you know how great and powerful Magneto thought you were an asshole. You could have asked around the department, saved yourself time. It is the general consensus. I? I did not need to know any of it." Though it was coming out in the raw data they had, the unique file structure they were building from two unique brains, it felt less like voyeurism to read it than to use the viewer._

 _Mathison straightened as if he'd been shot, and gave him a glare that would have cut him to the bone if he gave a damn. He had been trying to get Vavrin fired for years, but Vavrin kissed ass a lot better than he did, and he was always in the right place at the right time. Thank god the ass wasn't his direct supervisor. "Yes, well, at least I register as an asshole. We have two of the most powerful mutants on Earth here, and they wouldn't think of you as a flea, so button it and get back to work."_

 _The best he could manage was to give his coworker a dirty look before he went back to trying to build out the database of their separate but intertwined minds and memories. Eventually, they would know enough to start influencing, to start implanting, but Vavrin did not need to watch to read and understand._

* * *

  
Kurt was dead.

It wasn't all that surprising; experiments went wrong in hard science with disastrous results, so the fact that he'd made it through so many years without something exploding badly shouldn't have been surprising. The fact that it had been a house fire and not anything related to his job, on the other hand, was. The issue, he supposed was that it felt like a hollow loss. The man had been no contribution in his life, nothing more than a sign of his mother's indiscriminate need for companionship regardless of the character of that fellowship. He had loved her -- of course he had, she was his mother -- but he couldn't deny that fact no matter how much he might have wanted to do so.

Life with Kurt and Cain had been far from easy. The memories of it still made him shudder, grit his teeth and wish he could forget. Still. He had a familial obligation to be at the funeral, and Charles took his obligations to heart.

That made it dicey because Erik was as interested in attending a funeral as he was in pulling his own teeth, with little left to the imagination as to why he hated them. But he was going, even if he was grousing about having to put on a tie.

"Here. I'll tie it." It was old hat, a quick flip of fabric his father had taught him when he was small. He pushed Erik's hands out of the way and began to tie a four-in-hand. It was easy enough and looked nice.

Erik's mind was quiet, and he was peering at Charles while he tied his tie. "What... do you need me to do?"

"Stand between me and Cain." His stepbrother was a rather violent person, on the whole, and Charles was uncertain whether he would be celebratory or disturbed by the death of his father. "I'm never quite sure how he'll behave."

There was a rather firm feeling in Erik's mind, though it was wordless -- somewhere on the scale of love and obsession that functioned in Erik's mind. He leaned in for a kiss that was more comfort than passion. "I'll do that."

Well. That was something to be grateful for in any case. "I appreciate the effort." He did, too, because it wasn't as if there were many people left to stand up with him should he need someone. His parents had both been dead for some time, and they'd never been particularly close with other family members. At least not since his mother remarried, and now? Now that some days he didn't even feel human, now that he was almost cheating on his clinical work -- just doing and helping with intakes, he could tell what was wrong with someone, at least to a rough degree. His ability was all encompassing, always in use now, even at home. It wasn't passive listening, it was. Functionality.

It was wearing him down. There was a high rate of burnout, especially in the volunteer clinics where he most often ended up working. He could always tell the bright spark of someone new to the work, and the tired teeth-grinding acceptance of someone who'd been there for months. A few people had been working in the clinics for years, and he was fairly certain those people were some form of masochists.

At least Erik was easy. He knew him, knew his pitfalls, knew the triggers not to touch unless he was feeling malicious. Erik loved him, and that was a very different emotion to come home to at the end of the day than what he faced in work. Though if he was comparing work, Erik had the easier job.

"Okay. I'm catching a train for you, so we should probably go now."

"I know." He did know, but his hands wouldn't stop smoothing Erik's tie, and then clinging to his lapels. It was stupid, really. Kurt dying, it didn't upset him, not traditionally in any case. It was a sad, sick sort of relief despite the fact that his mother had been gone for so long.

It felt perhaps like the end of an era. He was free, now. No real ties to the family that had been, no one except Cain who remembered his childhood. "It's okay."

"Yes." Yes, it was. Some things, though, were difficult. Adjusting to the idea that Kurt was dead, that he was cut free from Cain and all of the anger and bitterness those people had brought into his life would take time even now, when he was already separated from them by time and distance. Charles let go of Erik's lapels and straightened himself. "I'm ready."

 _No, you're not._ Erik lifted his chin, and moved to slide an arm over Charles's shoulder. "But we're still going."

That was one of many things he loved about Erik; the art of ripping away a bandage was one that he knew well, and it was something to be appreciated. "Yes. Now, before we miss the train. The funeral home is sending someone."

They left the apartment, hurrying down the way so that they would be on time. The trip was typically boring, loud, hot, but when they arrived at their stop, there was a car waiting for them.

Erik felt jangly, tense, but he wasn't complaining. Charles could mark the number of times Erik had ridden a train with him -- three times, only one of which had moved past tension and memory and into a solid flashback. He held the door for Charles and slid in after him. The quiet was comfortable, small burbles of commentary, because there wasn't much to say about an impending funeral. Just the sound of the engine, the way that the world slid by while someone else drove them, and he laid his hand on the seat between them as if that would make things better. It probably wouldn't, but then, today wasn't going to be a good day by any stretch of the imagination.

It was almost worth it when Erik laid his hand beside Charles's, like he was bracing himself on the seat while the car took off. He was sure that the remainders on his father's side of the family would have opinions about Charles's quiet lifestyle.

Even if they never said a word, he'd hear it all.

 _Really, it's what. Two hours at worst, and then something afterwards?_

 _Two hours, and you're meeting my family. All things considered, it could be a complete disaster. They're very...._ Very upper-class New York. Sometimes, Charles couldn't bear to spend time with them just because their thoughts were so self-involved, and usually judgmental of him, of his mother. They believed that the apple didn't fall far from the tree, and that she was at fault for any choices he made that didn't suit them. Never mind that small, and apparently useless to them, concept of free will. Or, god forbid, actual genetics.

 _Well, let them think they're better than us._ There was an uptwist in his thought, and Erik slouched a little, peering at the back of the driver's head.

"How much farther is it?" Charles asked, taking a deep breath. Might as well get the whole thing over and done with as soon as possible.

"Just down the road a bit." A bit, yes. It was probably somewhere grandiose, somewhere they could fit all of the people who would be out to pretend to mourn his stepfather.

For another ten minutes, the world slid past, until finally they stopped. The funeral home looked just the same as it did when he'd last been there, his mother's coffin nestled safely inside.

Charles hated the place. Hated the funeral home and the cemetery and hated being here for a man who had never thought anything of him. Anything of his mother, except that he'd wanted her money.

"Well. I suppose we should go in."

"Or we could run circles around the parking lot," Erik drawled, popping his door open. "It would be terribly scandalous, and that's what they want, isn't it?"

"There are a lot of things they want," Charles murmured, opening his own door and getting out. The driver was patiently pretending not to hear them. "I'd rather not give any of them the pleasure."

 _I'll be quiet and somber, then._ Erik moved over to Charles's side of the car, flanking him. He'd probably do it the entire time, knowing Erik. Well. There were worse things, he supposed.

They really _would_ sit there, vaguely appalled and judging him from behind.

At least it would be the last time.

He needed to be free of them, needed to be completely his own person, the way he was at home. They diminished him, somehow, and it hurt to be around them. Erik had remarked over breakfast that morning that Jesus had been badly accepted in his home village, though Erik added that he didn't think much of the fellow himself.

Erik truly did consider them... some kind of god, like the gods of old, and had the myths of antiquity been of people like them? But it was a point of view that made dull events like that easier to deal with, Charles supposed. Not caring what people thought was one way to handle family.

They walked inside and it became immediately obvious that choosing to arrive as late as politely possible was the best idea he'd had in some time. Several relatives turned his way, glanced at him, saw Erik, and turned away. It wasn't as though they were obvious in any way; mostly it was the fact that he was seen very much as his mother's son, and they didn't seem to expect anything particularly good of him.

Their loss, then.

He saw his step-brother standing up near the casket, accepting condolences, no doubt. The place was just riddled, riddled with crosses, and he didn't think he'd ever seen his step-father associated with religion in any shape or form until that moment. _Likely not,_ Erik agreed, while Charles spotted an aunt coming towards them while they looked for an out of the way place just to be.

Wonderful. Aunt Della was supremely acidic, and the look on her face reminded him of a dog chasing a cat. "Well, Charles, it's been some time."

"Yes, I've been wrapped up in my studies. I'm doing clinic work now. It's very time-consuming." Also, he avoided Aunt Della even on normal days. She was infamous for being pushy, and her thoughts were full of dissatisfaction. Uncle William led a miserable existence.

It was probably the least Uncle William deserved. Aunt Della smiled tightly at him. "Oh? Oh, yes, you're going to be a.... psychiatrist was it?"

"Quite a good one," Erik murmured. His accent was going to be a red flag for Charles's posh family.

"And I suppose you would know." Fantastic. They were off to a jam-up start, indeed.

Charles gave her a smile in return. "Actually, Erik is an engineer. He's just started graduate studies."

"And I teach at Columbia," Erik smiled, no teeth. "And you...?"

"I have other interests. My husband is a stockbroker, and I've spent quite a lot of time raising our children. His first wife was a common drunkard." Well. That was quite the dig. "Your brother is waiting for you, Charles."

And did he leave Erik to the wolves and go up and talk to him by himself, or drag Erik with him? It was something he could keep to himself, internal at least, reaching out with his mind to tell Erik what he needed him to do.

 _She's right. He is. If you'd like to stay here and quibble with Della, it's probably easier than talking to Cain._ Which was horribly true enough.

 _I can quibble with her later._ Erik nudged his shoulder gently, and inclined his head as a yes.

Thank God. Charles hadn't really wanted to face Cain alone. They'd never gotten along very well, and his stepbrother was very physical when he was displeased. Most of his memories weren't particularly good ones. _Thank you._

 _Not entirely altruistic._ It was gentle, and a comfortable feeling as Charles nodded and then started towards Cain and the casket that held the body of a man about whom he hadn't cared.

There was a rustle amongst his family, whispered words, and how long was it until the funeral actually began? "Cain," he greeted as they came close enough. "I'm sorry about Kurt."

"I'm sure you are." Cain was a stubborn looking man, with a strong jaw, wild hair that lay coarsely against his head, and an angry gleam in his eyes. "Get out of my sight, you pissant."

Ah, family pleasantries. "I'll be glad to do that just as soon as the funeral is over. It will be a relief never to see you again."

He smelled a little ozone in the air, and Erik had shifted onto the balls of his feet, but he wasn't doing anything. "Yeah, I just bet you will be."

There were so many things for which to be grateful. The fact that his father's will had included money specifically for him, separate from the money for which Kurt had married his mother, for example. "Mm. I'm sure you will be, too, but for now... make nice for the family, Cain. They have expectations."

Cain reached his hand out to shake Charles's hand, and against his better judgment, he took the man's hand and shook, under Erik's watchful gaze. Not so bad. Not a big scene at all. Just quiet, itching hostility.

It could have been so very much worse.

There was a preacher, hovering near the door, and Charles nodded to him, backing away from Cain and the casket. The front pew of the small funeral chapel was empty, and he moved to sit, Erik just behind him. Cain sat on the other side, far enough away that there wouldn't be any temptation to fight in the middle of the ceremony.

He was half aware that Erik was picking up a Bible, idly fumbling through it while the ceremony started. It was possibly the best thing he could concentrate on through the funeral.

For the most part, Charles drifted along in the thoughts of his family. Most of them were drifting, the usual sorts of thoughts and half-remembered conversations that people had when they were in the midst of any given ceremony. Some of them were wondering about Erik.

His great-aunt Mathilda was of the opinion that his man-friend was very adorable, and that it was no surprise, his tastes. After all, his great-uncle Porter's half-brother Linton had a man-friend as well, although much less manly.

It was a relief that Erik didn't know that, or he would've started to make eyes at her to make her turn colors.

Someone off to the left was comparing the quality of the ceremony to other funerals they'd attended, and that was vaguely amusing. After all, how far he'd come from a scared little boy in Kurt's presence to being able to slide through minds in a bored and idle way at his funeral.

By the time it was over, he was more than bored, and all he wanted to do was escape. Still. They'd have to go to the reception afterwards, the reading of the will. Charles knew his presence wasn't necessary, but it was expected.

 _You look bored._ Erik tilted his head a little as the pew filed out -- such as it was -- and he ghosted after to fall into step at Charles side. _And you feel bored. How're the relations?_

 _Great-Aunt Mathilda thinks you're more manly than her husband's half-brother's boyfriend. If you smile at her, she'll probably giggle like a young girl. Uncle Lewis, on the other hand, is contemplating how hot Hell's fire will be when we arrive._

 _Well, seeing as I'm Jewish and also not quite human as well as deeply appreciative of your body, I suppose they'll be very hot indeed._ Erik looked for and caught Great-Aunt Mathilda's eyes, and smiled. How he knew it was she was anyone's guess, but she did flush and titter.

It made Charles smile, and he tilted his head to the side. "The car will be waiting to take us to Della and William's. We're expected. There's the reading of the will." He didn't care about it. Doing what was expected had never gotten him anywhere with them.

"Can we commandeer the car and go somewhere afterwards?" Erik lifted his eyebrows at him. "Possibly to celebrate."

"Just don't let anyone hear you calling it that."

They'd make it through. Probably without Cain hitting him, although Charles sincerely believed that there were very dirty names in his immediate future. Well. He'd survive. Hateful words couldn't cut him, not literally, in any case.

Settle in his mind, yes.

He'd have access to more of his mother's things again, and that was nice something to look forward to. The house... well, the house.

There was a house that was still his now that Kurt was dead and no longer able to reside in it. That was something, anyway, and it was nice enough. Maybe they'd come up on the occasional weekend.

It was a good thought, and hopefully it would get him through the rest of this bloody awful day.

* * *

  
Erik liked Great-Aunt Mathilda. She was a little batty, and she tended to wander off in the midst of her conversation, usually to something from her girlhood. It was remarkably amusing, particularly in comparison to the rest of Charles's family.

He seemed simply to accept the fact that they were all complete asses and go on, offering mildly conciliatory comments as he went, and Erik... couldn't. Hit him, and he had no inclination to turn the other cheek, no inclination to be kind and make excuses for what seemed like, to a stranger to their ways, an exhibition in insanity. He was almost spoiling for a fight, though he still had to fight on their terms when it came to things like that.

One day, he wouldn't have to do that.

It was a shame when Great-Aunt Mathilda wandered off, though, dragged of by that uncle of Charles's that Erik was sure hated them. Charles had gotten up to get himself a drink, and he couldn't... quite. Quite shadow him everywhere. Not quite.

He wanted to, though, and anyone with an ounce of sense could see why Charles had gone into psychiatry. Certainly being a mind reader was part of it, but more of it had to do with the fact that his family was, for lack of a better term, completely barking mad.

"And you are?"

Erik looked sideways at a stout man who looked like Cain and smelled like he'd been drinking. The dead man's family, then, because while Charles's family were insane to a person, they were also exceedingly good looking. "Erik Magnus Lehnsherr."

"You sound like a damn Kraut on top of being a pink triangle. Bet meeting that queer little bastard of Sharon's was like hitting the jackpot, then, wasn't it?" Yes, he was definitely on the wrong side of tipsy, because everyone else had tiptoed around their insults, asking him if he was _happy_.

"I'm unsure how my nationality factors into my willingness to make sure my roommate doesn't come to harm at a funeral." He kept the tone light and easy, still smiling tightly. All he needed was an excuse, and there'd be blood on the floor.

The man scoffed audibly. "Kurt should've beaten the little queer more often. It might've done him some good. Made a _man_ out of him instead of a poof."

"I don't think harshness of existence has anything to do with one's orientation." Erik cocked an eyebrow at the man, standing up so he could face him properly. He started to feel out, gently, for his dental work. Someone had left a screw in his jaw -- lovely.

"Sure you wouldn't, Adolf. Just how fast did you run to get out ahead of the incoming troops, eh?" Ah, yes. Just there. That was supremely perfect, and Erik wiggled it, just a little. A tiny bit, and the drunkard's eyebrows pulled together sharply, pained. How nice.

"I'm Jewish," Erik said firmly, letting the screw lay for a moment, waiting to see his answer. "I came here after the war."

The pain didn't deter the man any; just made him crankier. "Well, well. A kike or a Nazi. Either way, a waste of space."

"Because you're so much better, eh? American drunkard with a penchant for fights." And a jaw with a screw in it that took a quarter turn.

"Ungh! Christ!" Christ indeed, and the way he reached up, grasped at his jaw in desperation, it was delicious. It made Erik smile despite himself. "Nnn."

"You seem to be in pain," Erik murmured, not bothering to fake concern.

He kept rubbing his jaw, and glared across the feet between them. "Bet you enjoy that sort of thing. You recognize it fast enough."

"Pain? No. People who call me a kike in pain? Emphatically, sir, yes." And he was waiting, giving it another millimeter of a turn to watch the man crumble.

Charles stepped up at just the moment when Erik was going to twist it to the point of horrible agonies. "Hello. I think they're almost ready for the reading of the will now. Hello, Kenneth."

He let it go, let it fade and stop, though it had to still hurt and echo out. Erik tilted his head a little towards Charles. "Oh good. We should find a seat."

"As if he left anything for you," Kenneth mumbled. Even in pain, he sounded pissy, and Erik gave it another quarter turn, enjoying watching him stumble, nearly fall.

 _Erik. That's not kind. He isn't worth your anger, or the effort._ Aloud, Charles agreed. "Yes. Probably for the best."

 _I don't care. You're humoring these people and they're beneath you._ He moved, though, and walked with Charles to sit along the wall, out of the way.

 _Yes, well. It's the last time I'll need to humor them, so why not? It doesn't hurt me to do so. And it's over after today. It's over, and we'll go to my home._ His mother's home, and while there were bad memories there, there were good memories, too. Charles held things that had been his mother's very dear, and who was Erik to have questions about that? It was family, and if it failed you, the things associated could still matter. _After. I promise, we'll leave as soon as we can. Stop for food of some sort on the way. You can have me over every flat surface in the house, if you want. If it'll help._ His anger and frustration was obviously telling.

When he was that angry, what he was suggesting wasn't going to help. Erik settled into a chair beside him, and laid a hand lightly on his thigh. _I think food will settle you a little._

 _Perhaps._ Perhaps, and the faint feedback of disapproval, of Charles's family watching them instead of listening to the will, was entirely gratifying.

Erik settled his back firmly against the chair, and looked out at them, stretching his fingers and getting comfortable. Yes, the will reading was going to pass just fine.

Of course there was nothing for Charles in it; that was unsurprising. Great-Aunt Mathilda patted him on the shoulder, murmured something about her brother-in-law Linton, and then wandered off in search of food. Erik was relatively certain that she'd probably be one of those old ladies that would wander off the older she got.

Erik waited for Charles to sweep the room with his eyes, to pick up and discard a few last memories before they headed for the door.

"How do you feel about Italian before we get a train back?"

"Italian sounds just fine."

And if any of the family had something smart to say about that, they were gone, and didn't have to worry about it.

* * *

  
Italian had been just the thing. The house was very nice, and some of the rooms seemed as if no one had ever so much as touched them. Charles was curled on a couch across from a rounded television cabinet watching _The Ed Sullivan Show_ with half of his attention, the other half somewhere lost that Erik wasn't sure he could define.

He wasn't a mind reader, after all, and most times he was glad for it. He didn't need to read minds in any way to know the evil things man could do to one another. He could read Charles, though, at least to a certain point, a mix of familiarity and too much time spent connected mind to mind. He'd managed to pull together cocoa from the kitchen, and was eyeing the back of Charles's head, the curve of his shoulders as he sidled around the couch.

"It's all right." Charles looked up at him, and he was a little pale, a little uncertain, but he would live.

Living wasn't what he was worried about, though. Of course Charles would live. "Mm. I made cocoa," he offered, sitting down beside him. The kitchen was excessive, large enough to house an army. The place was still... something that could be commutable for them. If that was an option, if Charles didn't decide to do something out of character and sell it.

"Thank you. I was just... thinking. This place. It's... there are a lot of memories. Before my father died, some, after my mother remarried, more. It's a house full of memories." A huge house, too big for two people. Too big for a full family, truthfully, but it was very nice.

"You should show me what room was yours, sometime." He settled in beside Charles, sliding the mug into hands while he settled against his side and a little of his back. It was like... coming home. It was that homecoming feeling without the house, just him and Charles and a little quiet time, no pressing anything. "You've been running hard at clinic."

"I've been running down at clinic." It was spoken like a confession, and yet it was something that Erik already knew, and knew well. "Getting a little more cynical than I should be."

"You need to find a way to clear your head." His own cocoa was abandoned on the coffee table because it felt, for the moment, much better to curl up to his companion.

Charles's mouth quirked upwards, smiling. "You could help me out with that, I suppose." Oh yes. Yes, he could, and he laid a hand on the back of his neck, massaging gently. Charles leaned his head forward and hummed. "That's nice."

"That's better. You realize you project when you're this tense." If he were in a more paranoid mood, it would have bothered him. One day, Charles would be able to reach out and work people like puppets. And one day, Erik would be able to do... more with the wandering bits of metal in human bodies.

That control was growing with practice and with age. What they'd been able to do at seventeen, they had perfected within a year. They'd moved on to other, more complicated experiments, and the wealth of information... it was amazing, and perhaps on occasion shocking.

"I'm sorry. That can't be very nice for you." Charles meant that, to the core of him. Some of the things Erik was learning weren't at all pleasant, and he wished he'd done something more rude and hateful at the funeral. Some of them were entirely lovely, memories softened by age and distance. "I love this house, though. I've always loved it. It's a shame for it to be so very empty."

"What would you like to do?" Two people could make it possible, livable, and it was a nice house. A nice house that needed work done on it, which Erik could handle by himself. He might even drag Charles into it.

It was all very domestic, but domestic with Charles didn't really frighten him. It shouldn't have, as he was sitting behind him and massaging his neck. He moaned, dropped his head forward. The tension there was greater than it should have been, leading a hard line down his back. "God, that feels good."

Erik closed his eyes, and dug his thumbs into the muscle on either side. "This might be better if you were naked."

Charles gave a noise that was pure pleasure, and began to fumble loosely for the buttons on his shirt. "I can get that way. We could find a bedroom."

"Do you want to?" They could make out on the sofa. He didn't care; he just wanted Charles to feel good. It inevitably echoed back to him. He started to work Charles's shirt off from behind, smiling to himself.

"That would be fine, too." He tried not to respond to thoughts in private; it led to bad habits in public, but they weren't going to be caught out now. If anything, this house had been Charles's home most of his life, and he should be able to do that in his own private space.

He needed room to stretch, and so did Erik. Room to be themselves without fear, even if it was just the two of them. They were still very much alone in the world, no matter how much Charles hoped otherwise.

Erik pulled off the shirt and dropped it on the floor, sliding his hands around to press his palms on Charles's flat stomach while he kissed the back of his neck over the sore muscle spots. There was something very comforting in touching a warm, living, breathing lover, a comforting feeling in Charles's body that had not actually faded with the newness of novelty.

"Bedroom," Charles murmured finally, reaching up to slide his hand over Erik's bicep. "I have some things in our bag."

"You thought ahead." He shifted, nudged Charles forward off of the sofa gently, a gawky standing up for the both of them that didn't lose closeness. Charles's stepfather would have no doubt been scandalized to know that there were two faggots in 'his' home about to defile one of the beds.

More like consecrate.

He kept a hand on Erik, half leading him, half teasing him, always a hand, and they made their way up the wide stairs to the second floor. On the landing, he turned, let Erik lay hands on him, all over him. He rested one palm at the small of his back, and Charles shuddered, finally, finally relaxing. "Fourth door. On the right."

Reaching the door was the easy part. Doing it while taking Charles's zipper down with his mind was fractionally harder. The button took finesse.

"One day, I'm going to trip when my pants fall around my ankles." It was breathless, a little excited. "Then what will you do?" His own hands were busy tugging at the buttons of Erik's shirt.

"Catch you." It was an easy promise, because he had his hands all over Charles, sliding a hand down to press his thumb against the edge of his hipbone. Whatever Charles murmured back to him wasn't important, because he had the shirt open and sliding off, and then there was a touch against his nipple that was definitely very pleasant.

He inhaled a little raggedly, and backed Charles into the door of that bedroom, before he opened it. "This. This is what I think we both need..."

Sex. Warmth, connection, sweaty skin to sweaty skin, and that would be good for both of them. Excellent for both of them, and they kept kissing, all lips and tongue, as Charles backed them towards the bed, knowing exactly where it was. "Yes. Yes, I think so."

Sometimes, they needed hard and fast and fierce, but not then. It was a different texture of enjoyment, a different type of sex, of which Erik was learning there were many. He got Charles's pants down, and eased off his own, taking a step out of it as they hit the bed.

"This is... very, very good," Charles murmured, crawling backwards into the bed. It was still made, and so he pulled them down, shoving them out of the way. "There's a small bottle in the case." With oil, lightly scented, very slick. It was good that he so often thought ahead.

It was supposed to be for massages, though Erik suspected it was usually used for reasons like he and Charles did. There was a whole world of homosexual communities out there, none of which interested Erik. They were all very promiscuous seeming, and not... not anything he was attracted by. Erik was very much a monogamist, and he thought that Charles was, too. He suspected that Charles was a bit more than monogamous, but neither of them had particularly said, one way or another.

"Taking your time?" Teasing was very charming. It made him lick his lips and smile.

"Well, we're naked and on the bed. That seems rather fast," Erik smirked, sitting up slowly, a hand on Charles's stomach. "So you want me, then."

"I always want you." There was something earnest about that, the way that he said it. "Sometimes I think I'll want you even after I'm dead." He arched up a little, pressing into Erik's palm, seeking out more contact, further touch.

"You have permission to haunt me." He moved away, though, quick, got the little vial of oil and stepped back with it in hand to join Charles on the bed. He had enough ghosts who hadn't asked permission.

"If it's all the same, I'd prefer to stay live and not add to anything that haunts you." He was smiling, though, up on his elbows, sprawled back and watching Erik.

He moved to kneel between his knees, hands idling up and down Charles's thighs. He liked the splay, the particular lines of Charles's body while he laid stretched out like that, the feel of his leg muscles while he moved one to rest up over his shoulder.

"So." Charles swallowed, and looked up at him, a flirtatious glance through his lashes. "What exactly are you planning to do to me, hm?"

Erik closed his eyes for a moment, and leaned his cheek against Charles's calf muscle. He was already hard, and there wasn't much concern about it wavering. "I plan on having my wicked way with you, as slowly or as quickly as you can stand."

The way Charles went loose, entire body relaxing for just a moment before he shivered, tightened, was delicious. "Promises like that will get you everywhere." And then some, in point of fact, because he licked his lips and dropped his head back to the mattress.

He fussed open the little bottle -- one day, he'd convince Charles of the benefits of using metal containers for everything -- fingers getting slick just from opening. He'd need to do a little prep, but not too much. No. Not too much, because Charles could take him, Charles _would_ take him, and mmmm. Yes, the way his fingers slid inside, the slick feel of muscles opening for him, tightening around his knuckles, it was just as good as the sound Charles gave him, hot and thick with pleasure.

"Love it when you do this to me. It's... I... oh, yes."

He leaned into Charles, fucking him slowly with his fingers until he felt Charles's body start to rock up against him more needfully. Swapping two fingers surrounded by tight smooth muscle for his cock buried in Charles was an easy motion.

"God." A breath, praise, a blissed out murmur. That was delicious, making him sound that way after a day like the one they'd had. "This. I never really knew pleasure before this."

It was the time they could take doing it, the safety of their own space, the trust he had in Charles that made it better than anything else had been. Erik eased in, pushing the head of his cock in slowly, stopping when he felt the head slip in, waiting a half second, a breath, before he pushed further into the heat. He wanted to stretch out that easy, heavenly feeling, wanted to make it so good they'd never forget it.

Charles reached for him, hands wrapping around his biceps, pulling him closer. "Feels like you're melting into me." He sounded drunk with it, and rocked his body forward, up, obviously asking for more.

Just like that. Erik leaned into him until he felt Charles's leg stretch far enough, felt their bodies resettle against each other before he started moving.

The oil was enough, warm, slick, and Charles was unembarrassed now, different than he'd been at first. It was easy, all slow, gliding motions, bodies pressed one against another. After such a bad day, they'd needed that, and it wouldn't surprise Erik if this were the best it had ever been between them.

He took his time, or Charles took his time, but it was slowly mounting towards pressure, and an urgent need to move move move that he wasn't quite pushing at. Not until Charles let him in, anyway, a strange mental feedback of nothing but exquisite feelings. After that, moving wasn't an option; it was a necessity, and Erik pushed, thrusting deep and hard exactly the way that Charles wanted it. The way Erik ultimately wanted it to be. He kept his eyes open, looking down at Charles while he thrust to completion, embraced in that backwash that ran higher and higher as it echoed between them.

When Charles came, it was almost a surprise -- his eyes widened, then shut tight, and he shuddered, clamping down on Erik even as he pushed in harder, deeper, tried to bury himself.

It was one of those feelings that he wanted to linger forever, but it wasn't going to. His own orgasm was lost in Charles's, mingled and mixed, and only definable by the added urgency to thrust and ragged inability to keep doing it _right_. He shifted, let Charles's leg fall off of his shoulder, and leaned onto his elbows so he could pet Charles's side.

"Dear God." Charles panted, head dropping back to the mattress. _We should do this more often._ The utter relaxation, the way that he was laid out, was almost enough to make Erik want him again. It wouldn't take long before he did. Sex with Charles was truly magnificent.

"We should," Erik chuckled, lying down half on top of Charles. Skin on skin was delicious. They'd have the energy to go again soon, and perhaps after that as well. They could be as loud as they liked, have sex on the stairs if it appealed.

Yes. There were worse things than strange passive-aggressive funerals. They'd found a way to enjoy this one.

Perhaps they'd go back when Great-Aunt Mathilda died.

* * *

  
 _Watching the interactions hurt, and made Vavrin feel dirty whenever he took off his headphones and glanced up. It was an interesting relationship; part obsession, part friction, part clash, but rolling forward on the screen while the two relived their lives together._

 _Which... was now in his asshole coworker's hands._

 _He supposed that it might turn him on, after all. The cold comforts at home likely induced that bizarre urge for voyeurism. The way he watched was frankly disturbing, particularly when there were any sorts of sexual or romantic notions involved. For his part, Vavrin had in fact maintained personal relationships out of something besides mutual dislike._

 _It felt intrusive to Vavrin, in a very personal way._

 _"Still synced?" Roderick leaned over his shoulder. "I want to try something."_

 _"Yes. The readings are constant, the patterns are in sync. What did you have in mind?" He wasn't entirely certain that it would be a good idea. Mathison had been getting somewhat... odd of late._

 _"Leave them synced and don't disturb it. Just... Let's use Xavier to control Magneto on something small." He sounded oddly intrigued by it, as if he was sure it would work if only he could get the right flips switched._

 _"Define small," Vavrin muttered to himself, but he watched, all the same._

 _Mathison gestured for a moment before grabbing one of the medical instruments that were kept on hand for reinserting the various tubes. "Melt this. Manipulate this."_

 _"Do that," Vavrin muttered darkly, just beneath his breath. "Yes, yes. It's prepared, everything is in unison and ready."_

 _"Do it." Mathison's smile was twisted, wild as he waited and held it._

 _The aim was a little off, though, and Mathison's watch turned to liquid against his arm._

 _Well, they had time on their side._

* * *

  
Bobby yelped and ducked onto the stairs, running up them full-throttle. "Hey, hey, hey! No, don't kill me, Scott, I swear! I didn't mean to!"

Ah, youth.

Charles watched them from the landing, moderately amused. It had been a long time since the house had been anything but dust slips and the occasional vacation visit. It was nice to have people within its walls again.

He was very pleased with it all -- the school, bringing new mutants to a place of sanctuary, nurturing them to appreciate themselves because of what they could do rather than despite it. Erik was adjusting slowly but surely, creating the things they needed, refining equipment, building his pipe dream projects. He was still out for the Thursday night class he taught at Columbia, and it did help with maintaining accreditation.

As for himself, well. Charles had long since taken up private practice, and with the children it made more sense to function under sporadic hours, getting his own continuing education credits when he could find them. "Scott," he called, watching him reach upwards, scowling. "You may not kill Bobby, nor may you damage the house. Thank you."

He was watching Scott stand there with fingers on the side of his visor -- still clunky, yes, still not refined enough for Scott to leave the campus grounds yet without getting stared at, but functional. He'd seen Erik's sketches for the next version of it. "But you don't know what he said!" It was the usual anguished howl of outrage that Charles associated with teenagers.

It probably had to do with Jean.

"I'm sure I can imagine. However, violence is hardly ever a true solution, wouldn't you say?" Or rarely, in any case. Erik believed it to be the only answer at times, and Charles more or less agreed. This situation wasn't one of those. "We can sit down together and discuss the matter if you'd like."

"No." Scott twisted his mouth down, while Charles tried not to read his mind. Bobby was edging to stand behind him for protection.

"And perhaps, Mr. Drake, you will begin to think before you leap?" Although Charles rather doubted that he would. Youth was wasted on the young, or so the saying went. He didn't think that was true. It was wonderful, seeing the children play and enjoy themselves. It was even wonderful to help them through the more difficult times, to be honest about it.

They had never discussed children over the years, had wives. Things hadn't always been perfect, and they'd certainly parted badly at least once. Still. This, helping to mold a younger generation, was something he had never believed they would experience.

Erik had taken a not really unexpected shine to Scott. Sometimes Charles thought the emotionally damaged spoke a language known only to them -- the language of not talking about it. It was a quiet, grudging sort of relationship, and Erik could coax Scott's real angry problem out better than he could. At least, better than he could without reading Scott's mind.

"Maybe?" Bobby was edging away from him and Scott, still, which was probably the smarter decision just then.

"Maybe?" Charles echoed back to him. "Maybe doesn't seem like a very good answer, all things considered. So! You and I will continue our ethics discussion in the study, shall we?"

"Aw, man." He rocked on his heels, and turned, half stomping down the stairs from the landing. "Okay." At least he seemed relieved that Scott wasn't going to lay a hand on him if he was being lectured.

Charles nodded. He'd heard more stomping and door slamming in the last year than he had since his mother died and he went to college. "And you, Mr. Summers?"

"Strangling isn't allowed, and I shouldn't have chased Bobby." But not _'I'm sorry'_ , which was... very Erik, as far as Charles was concerned.

"And why shouldn't you have chased Mr. Drake?"

There was a brief blank-looked moment from Scott, just around the mouth area. He could almost hear the _'because I was caught'_. "I, uh..."

Charles couldn't keep himself from laughing. "I know. I know. Just next time, please, consider that I truly do love this house."

"Yes, sir." Which was why he'd let Erik gut the foundation, re-shore it, and build a complex beneath it the better part of six years prior. To the naked eye, the exterior was still pricelessly the same even if it was fast becoming a fortress. "Can I go?"

"Go." Go, and probably find Jean, grumble that he hadn't been allowed to kill Bobby and leave a drying sticky pool of blood at the foot of the stairs. Charles watched him scamper off, and began his own stroll down to the main floor.

"I'm sorry, Professor." Bobby was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, looking at least a little guilty.

"Yes, well. You shouldn't tease Scott about Jean. Very much like Professor Lehnsherr, he doesn't take teasing well. I'm afraid it's difficult for him."

"Oh." Well, that was one analogy that settled in well. "Why? I take teasing all the time and I don't have any problems. Jean teases Scott."

He nodded, and smiled. "Yes, well. There's a distinct dissimilarity in that, isn't there? That's Jean." And Jean was a girl, which made all the difference in the world. Bobby saw that, he knew.

"He should lighten up." It was almost a question, but not quite. "It'd be easier, if... I mean. I don't know."

That, Charles though, summed up that age quite well from his experience. And the next few years after that. Bobby was a bit younger than Scott and Jean, enough to make him behave more like a younger sibling than an age mate in some ways. "It's very difficult for Scott to be less than serious. I know that sometimes that makes teasing him all the more fun. Professor Lehnsherr has a similar sort of seriousness about him. You'll grow accustomed, Bobby. They're just a bit different, that's all."

"Mmmph." Well, that was a sulky sound. "Hank's serious, too! But he's fun." And Bobby was probably going to go looking for Hank now that he'd said it, to vent at.

That was all as it should be, teenage hormones being what they were. "Hank has a different history, Bobby, different people in his past. Perhaps one day, Scott will be able to laugh at himself a little. After all, Professor Lehnsherr developed that particular ability." To some extent, anyway. He had been exceedingly grim for a very long time, with good reason.

He was better now, a little lighter than he'd once been, some of Charles's humor rubbing off on him, the tiny, funny woes of teaching college students and their own students.

"Okay." Bobby shifted restlessly for a moment. "Can I go?"

"Do you think we should talk about the ethical dilemma involved in teasing Scott when you know that he doesn't take it well?" Ah, yes. Bobby knew that the answer should be yes despite wanting badly to tell Charles no. It was enough. "Go find Hank, Bobby."

"Thank you!" Bobby turned and scampered off pretty quickly down the hallway, towards the back stairs. Looked like he might have a quiet evening of reading ahead of him after all.

 _Charles._ Or perhaps not. At least he was never bored anymore.

 _Not busy enough today, Erik?_ Over the years, distance had become no barrier to communications between them, so long as it was reasonable.

 _They're taking a test. I should be home in an hour. Do you want me to bring you dinner?_

There were so many reasons that it was excellent to have Erik in his life. The fact that he would bring home supper was the least of them. Miss Anna was an excellent cook, but sometimes Charles just wanted something different. _Yes, please. Do you have any preference?_

 _No -- I'll surprise you._ It was almost a threat, but he knew Erik could mostly be trusted not to bring home anything absurd. _I'll be home soon._

 _And hopefully I'll be reading quietly in my study, although I wouldn't make any promises._ Not if the children had anything to say about it, in any case. Hank would likely come by at some point, and then Jean, and then Warren, despite the fact that he already knew quite well exactly what Bobby had said to set off Scott. The fact that it hadn't really been that terrible was true, but Scott had difficulty expressing his affection, and he also hated any sort of teasing with the violence of a young man who'd grown up surrounded by the rather unpleasant varieties.

He'd have Erik say something to him in the morning, in his own way.

But for a moment... It was just Charles and his bookcase.

There were worse things than that.

* * *

  
"Be careful." He called it more out of habit than anything else; the children were all old enough not to need him as a keeper crossing the street, but that didn't stop him from worrying.

"Charles, you fret too much. They're all fine, and they've promised to behave." Mostly, anyway. After all, one never could be entirely certain where children and teenagers were concerned. Erik paused, not quite smirking. "Well, or you'll know if they're not. Let them enjoy themselves." Scott didn't get out enough, and everyone seemed to be getting along for the moment.

"Yes, well. They've promised, but inevitably one of them will decide it would be amusing to do something that will show off a talent." They were fairly circumspect about their mutations, but he worried that the day would come when something would cause them to be otherwise.

They tried to lay low, tried to seem as normal as possible, though Erik was sure the day was coming when they would no longer be able to. He glanced left before stepping out onto the sidewalk with Erik. "I like to think we've trained them better than--"

It shouldn't have happened.

Later on, that was all Erik was able to think. It never should have happened, he should have been able to stop it, and the guilt was overwhelming. In that moment, everything slowed to a crawl, and Charles. Charles looked like a rag doll, twisting strangely away from him, the silver Chevy Caprice hurtling further onto the sidewalk.

It was insane, and all the laws of physics told him that it shouldn't have been that way, that it shouldn't have... happened. He'd stopped it, but too late. Caught blindsided when it was too close, when it had already hit Charles, when his immediate reaction was to fling it away, smashing it into a wall like a tin can.

He hadn't been hurt at all, and explaining what had happened to the police had been... dicey. Tense. The children had been inside. Thank God for small favors, for the fact that they'd been in such a hurry. They'd been ridiculously excited about dinosaur bones, and Erik was so grateful. So deeply thankful.

Time had shuttered, flickered on and off between the accident and the hospital. He'd made calls, gotten a car to take the children home despite their protests. Followed Charles as quickly as possible, and thank god the police had known which hospital. He still wasn't entirely sure where he was.

He'd gotten a taxi, and he was lost, stirred up and tense and hating hospitals, hating that he didn't know what had happened because Charles was in surgery. Surgery was good, because it meant he was still alive. He was sure he would've felt if Charles was dead, but he was unconscious, deeply unreachable in a way that Charles never was. Not even when asleep.

The police were gone, finally, and that left him alone, sitting, waiting. Erik had never been very good with waiting, and every person who came by wearing a white coat made him want to flinch.

He ended up restless, moving chairs, finally settling into one in the corner so he could put his back to the wall and watch the door and wait and hope. Charles had to be okay. He wasn't ever... not okay. There was no room in Erik's brain for the concept of Charles not being well and healthy and alive, there was no way for him to leave the hospital without news, and no way he could honestly leave the children alone overnight. Not when he was legally responsible for them, and they were more able to get into trouble than most. Even Miss Anna wouldn't be able to control them if they got started properly. She might be able to feed them, soothe them to a certain extent, but...

Time continued to jump and drag, and the sun was going down by the time someone came out to see him. He was the only one left in the surgical suite waiting room. "Mr. Lehnsherr?"

He stood and was trying not to look at the doctor, not quite directly, because past and present tended to overlap in his head when he was under stress, more than it usually did, and he could... see. Things he didn't wish to see. And Charles wasn't there to tell him to focus on the present. "Yes."

He could already tell the news would be bad, would be something he didn't want to contemplate, so he steeled himself. "I'm Doctor Anderson. I'm a specialist surgeon at Bellevue, but I came over this morning because they didn't want to chance bringing Doctor Xavier any further in his condition." He paused a moment, as if to let Erik take in the information before continuing. "Your friend has come through the surgery with a fair amount of success. When he was struck by the car, he twisted in the air before he landed. Most of the damage was to the lower area of his spinal column, around the L2 vertebrae. That's both good and bad in very different ways. Right now, there's a great deal of swelling in the area. We can't be entirely sure what the final results will be. More surgery will probably be necessary depending on what's revealed when the swelling goes down."

Swelling and spine, and... Erik closed his eyes for a moment, tight, until it started to hurt. "But he's going to be all right." Not a question, because he needed a yes.

"The likelihood is very high that he will survive." That wasn't really an answer, not properly. "However, he probably won't be able to walk. There's a possibility of lowered ability to maintain control over urination and defecation functions, although I think -- hope -- that won't be the case."

Charles had always been athletic for a bookworm. He was either out for a stroll or he was running, and there was no in between that Erik had ever experienced. He exhaled a little shakily, and didn't say any of the hundred stupid thoughts on the tip of his tongue, because the doctor was sliding his hands casually into his pockets like it was day in the fucking life routine for him to be there saying that, and he just wanted to kill the man.

It was completely irrational. "I need to see him."

Anderson shook his head. "He won't be able to talk to you. He's still heavily sedated and will be for some time."

Erik didn't care. He _needed_ to see him.

"I need to see him," Erik repeated, a little more slowly. He needed to see him, to touch his arm, just to know that the man wasn't lying to him, that it wasn't some huge setup and that Charles wasn't dead on a surgery table somewhere.

"Of course." As if that was gracious, and not at Erik's insistence. "Follow me. He's in intensive care for now, and he will be for a little while." No clear explanation of how long that would be.

The doctor had turned and walked a few feet, with Erik trailing after him before he found words that made any sort of sense at all. "We run a school for gifted children. The staff isâ€¦ small. I need to know..." Small. He'd have to get back to Westchester, have to drive back. He couldn't even remember where he'd parked.

He didn't care.

"What to tell them?" Anderson paused, let Erik catch up to him, and then kept walking. "Tell them that he'll be fine. It just... might be a while." He nodded, as if that meant something. "He'll need physical therapy, and he'll spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. But he will live."

"All right." And he probably needed to hear that more than the children did. Wheelchair, physical therapy, they were pragmatic tangible, forward things. And forward assumed, functioned with the assumption that Charles was going to be all right, alive, healthy, still a vibrant mind, because he'd fallen in love with Charles's mind before his body, and there was still nothing to reach out to. There had never been nothing, not since they'd met. He didn't know how to deal with that. He didn't know where to start.

Anderson led him down the hall, and paused at a desk to talk to the nurse. She jotted down some information, and the doctor moved to open the door for him. "This way."

"Thank you." He was trying to stay composed, trying to keep that gnawing panic to himself, trying not to throw any of the hundred body language signals that Charles read like a damn newspaper. The wiring in the walls was threatening to roar at him louder than usual, and the smell of antiseptics, cleaning fluids, made his eyes sting.

The room was large, beds separated by curtains that were all partially open so that the patients were in view of the nursing desk at the center. "There's a nurse devoted just to Doctor Xavier. She's a specialist in her field, retired from the Air Force. Very bright. She'll do her best."

Yes. Yes, she would, Erik knew that when he saw her. "Hello, Juana."

She was older, but weren't they all? He and Charles seemed quite a bit less old, but perhaps that was just a side effect of having been there for most of the aging process. Perhaps it was just what they were. He watched the recognition on her face, but he was trying to reach out, feel for Charles and there was just nothing. He could have been behind any of the curtains where normally he could've found Charles if he was blindfolded and set out miles away.

"H'lo, Erik. Nice to see you. It's been a while." Juana seemed different, now. Looser, friendlier, and every bit of it was a lie. Even without Charles awake and reading everyone around them, Erik could tell it.

"It has." And there he was, still with Charles. It wasn't just after the war anymore, and it wasn't probably very hard to guess at the nature of their relationship, though few people were impolite enough to do so. "Where's Charles?"

"Just this way. They'll let you in for ten minutes every two hours." She let a smile come to her face, and that was real, he was pretty sure. "I could maybe stretch it a little for you. I'm sure you're worried. C'mon."

Ten minutes every two hours. He could. He could handle it. See Charles, go home, soothe the children, and... plan. Plan forward. "Thank you." He hadn't even seen the car coming, hadn't bothered sensing it. Had been too relaxed, too comfortable with the world around them, and it had hit Charles.

It was his fault.

It had been a long time since he'd felt that much overwhelming guilt, thick and twisted in the pit of his belly. He felt sick with it, sick with the snakes made of tubes and wires that were leading into Charles and out of him.

"The next few days will be hard for him," Juana murmured. Anderson was still at the desk, flipping through a chart. "But I remember him as being very determined, and kind. He'll do all right."

Erik wasn't sure what kind would do in terms of healing ability, though he wasn't going to say anything. And there was still nothing, no connection. Was he brain dead, or...? Because Charles was _always_ there, and there was no way for him to explain why his anxiety was mounting in the face of their soothing words. "When do you think he'll wake up?"

He couldn't quite help it, moving in closer just to touch the back of his hand. Still warm, at least. Still warm, still bodily alive.

"He's pretty well sedated. Back surgery isn't something you want without fairly good sedation and serious pain medication." Juana waved, indicating the IV fluids slipping into him. "He'll start coming around within the next hour or two."

And it was getting darker out. Leaving the children alone for that long... "I n... want to be here when he does."

She nodded. "Then you'll have to wait a while longer. Don't worry any more than you have to. I promise I'll take good care of him, and I'll talk with the nurse who'll be on shift next. Make sure she knows."

Don't worry any more than he had to. Erik closed his eyes, focusing on the feel of the back of Charles's hand. "I'll be in the waiting room for as long as I can manage."

That seemed to pique her curiosity, though she didn't ask. "I'm sure there are calls you need to make. People who need to know how he's doing."

That didn't cross his mind often because, well, why? "Yes. I, uh, want to know when he's even the slightest bit conscious." Because as warm as Charles's hand was, he wasn't there and it just made the anxiety worse.

"Of course." Juana nodded. "If you'd like to return to the waiting room to make a few calls, I'll call you as soon as he opens his eyes."

That would have to be enough, even if he wanted Charles awake, coherent, _walking_ , at that very moment.

"Thank you." He rushed out, because it felt wrong in there and maybe his sanity was fraying a little. The waiting room was still nerve-wracking, but less so. And he needed to call the mansion, so he moved to the small desk and lifted the receiver.

Scott picked up on the first ring. _"How is he? What's wrong? He's gonna be okay, right?"_ It was obvious he'd been holding that in for some time, and the other children were speaking loudly behind him.

He didn't have the energy to handle them just then. Erik leaned against the wall, holding onto the phone too tightly. "Scott. I want you to give Jean the phone."

 _"But..."_ There was a quick scrabble for the phone, and Scott yelped.

 _"Professor Lehnsherr. How is he?"_ Thank God.

Jean was just that little bit older, that vast chasm more mature than the rest of the students. He supposed it came with the telepathy. "The doctor says he's been paralyzed. And... I can't reach him." She'd know what that meant, though she wouldn't have noticed. Not until he told her, at least. "I need you to get the others to go to bed. I'll be home in a few hours."

 _"Of course. I'll take care of everything. If you need me to come in to the hospital...."_ To try and reach him, he understood. _"Then I'll talk with Miss Anna. Whatever will help Professor Xavier."_

"No. Just... I'll be home in a few hours. They said he'd be awake soon." And he wanted to try then. "He's going to be fine."

Erik knew that she heard what he wasn't saying, just as he knew that she wouldn't tell anything to the others. _"I promise. I'll make sure everything is taken care of. Don't worry about anything."_

"That's very kind of you to suggest, Jean. I'll at least see you in the morning." And the rest. Perhaps by then his brain would start to spin pragmatically.

 _"Good night, Professor."_ She waited patiently for him to say the same before hanging up. She was a good girl, especially now that her telepathy was somewhat under control. He could trust her to take care of things while he sat down and fell apart just a bit. For all the give and take and grind of life, their falling outs, and... everything, life without Charles either annoying him or at his side was a hellish thought.

He sat down in the corner chair, hunched in on himself a little, and tried not to think.

* * *

  
Three days.

Three.

Days.

He was going to pieces, veritably at his wit's end, and he didn't know what to do, or where to start.

The hospital had said they'd call when Charles woke up. He'd get back to the city then, but until then.... until then, Charles was an empty shell and he was supposed to be teaching the children.

Jean could tell that he was teetering on an edge, and she was doing her best with the others. Bobby was being somewhat difficult, and Hank had taken to sulking in his room, reading Dickens.

Scott... well.

Erik was trying to think pragmatically, to act like Charles wasn't in a coma, wasn't going to die, that he would be okay, and well, who called paralyzed okay? Not Erik.

But he was still clearing and cleaning one of the quieter wings to move the bedroom to the first floor. He'd started on the second day, slow, determined. Scott had joined him yesterday afternoon, and had worked silently from removing the chairs and tables in the room to washing the walls.

Neither of them had said a word since they began.

There wasn't actually any need to, and Erik didn't think he could. It was clean, finally, and he'd settled on the floor to work on the wiring in the room. There'd been a few places that hadn't needed the upgrades most of the house had gotten, and now it needed it, needed detailed focused work that would keep him busy while he, while they, waited for news.

The house was so terrifyingly silent.

He'd have to go upstairs and sort through their things, do his best to separate his own personal items before anyone tried to help him move Charles's, as a kindness. They kept their privacy well, and he maintained rooms of his own, for sulking, frankly. Occasionally, a man needed time to quiet, to burn out his own temper a little before he retreated to the downstairs labyrinth he was building. The wiring took him in towards the late afternoon, silent and working on it until Scott got bored and wandered off. Once he was sure he was gone, he stood up, stretching and considering doing the clean up while no one was watching him.

He should have realized that Jean would already be there, quietly taking care of things already. "Hello, Professor. I thought you might like some help."

Dear God. He did hope she hadn't opened the box beneath the bed.

Not that she probably needed to, as she was a telepath, but Charles had a way of damping him out. Charles had taught him to push back, to resist telepathy if he wanted to, and just then... Just then he didn't have the focus or the anger to do that to Jean. "It's all right." She'd opened up at least two dresser drawers, and was neatly stacking clothes on the bed, no doubt so he could move the furniture.

"If you like, I'll move the clothing in the closet downstairs. I don't think anyone will notice anything." Certainly not that his suits were mixed in with Charles. "I already put all of the shoes into a box, to make things easier."

Well. "I appreciate it." Erik wandered into the room a few steps, and tried to focus. "I know I should be... more helpful with you all."

The way she looked at him, old eyes in a young face, made him ache. "It's understandable, Professor. I'm... we're all... very worried. Sometimes, people draw together in the face of catastrophe. With us... well. We're already different. It's harder to be together than it is to sulk and fret and worry on our own. We've already learned how to do that. You and Professor Xavier... we're just learning how to face trouble together. We have time for now."

"You're a very intelligent woman," Erik murmured. Not a girl, not in any way but age and occasionally silliness that even adults had. His first instinct was to pull away. Sometimes he thought he was only halfway a sociable creature because Charles pulled him out, made him interact. Made every step forward seem natural and logical and easy when it shouldn't have been.

"All right. I, uh... what time is it?" Had the children even eaten?

"Almost six. I told Miss Anna we wouldn't be having dinner together tonight. I thought perhaps we'd be moving furniture, trying to make things suitable for Professor Xavier."

"I think it's going to be a few more days before he can come home." Erik lifted a pile of Charles's shirts off of the bed. "Could you tell the boys to come down for dinner in the hour? I'll make something."

Jean smiled at him. "I'll make sure all of the boys are downstairs in an hour. Then... I think I have most of the things they would notice already packed. I know you worry about appearances." And she also knew why.

He could feel the why flip through his mind like an animation, fear and safety, worry about the students, and memories of pink triangles in with the yellow and so many bodies. So many bodies, and Magda. And now, maybe Charles as well.

One step out of line from the normal was all it took, and they were already hundreds of steps out just by living. "Thank you. I'll be downstairs in the kitchen, then."

"You're the boss." She smiled, and it was just that easy, as if there was nothing at all wrong. It felt extraordinarily painful, because Charles should be there, should be helping him go downstairs to feed the children. "I'll see to it that all of the boys are at the table in an hour."

He nodded, and turned, leaving, moving because if he stopped moving he wasn't sure what he'd do. He'd fall apart, so keeping moving was important. Staying useful, functioning, even if he didn't know what to do, how to soothe the students because Charles was the one who handled emotions with almost lazy ease.

The kitchen was quiet, and he managed to get the chicken cut up to cook in a skillet before he finally heard footfalls in the hallway.

He'd expected that the first would be Jean, and that the boys would follow down reluctantly one by one. It was something of a surprise to find that it was Hank, sheepish and clutching his book. He didn't say anything, just moved to the refrigerator, poured a glass of milk, and sat down quietly.

Erik looked over his shoulder at him, and nodded slightly before he went back to preparing dinner. Vegetables, he couldn't let them die of scurvy...

They gathered, one by one, Scott, then Bobby, and finally Jean, looking prim as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Erik had to wonder, just a little, how she had managed it. It was probably best to continue wondering.

It didn't take long. When the housekeeper had time off, he often cooked, which was always better than the threat of Charles trying to put together anything more complicated than spaghetti. He kept quiet, but Hank was saying something in a whisper to Scott.

Bobby cleared his throat. "Uh. I can help you with the vegetables, Professor. I mean, if you wanted me to. That is."

Ah, they were conspiring, then. He turned a little, eyeing the four of them, and decided to accept it for the well intentioned gesture it was. "Yes, fine. It's better than you sitting there and staring at me." Like he was going to implode at any moment. "Scott, why don't you set the table?"

"I'll get glasses," Jean offered, and nudged Scott until he got up and went to the cabinet for plates. It only took a moment before Hank was up, flipping around the kitchen and pulling silverware from the drawer.

They were raising good children. Mutant children, but children like any others, and it momentarily made Erik's teeth clench together. _They_ were raising children.

He couldn't do this without Charles. It kept coming back to it, a circular loop, because he didn't know what do with himself. He treated his undergrad night class badly, and he didn't even know what a childhood ought to be like.

He offered Bobby the celery, though, and a knife that he hoped he wouldn't take a finger off with. Bobby just halfway grinned at him, a faint reproduction of his usual smile, produced a sliver of ice, and went to work.

If only Charles were here.

If only.

* * *

  
 ** _ERIK!!_**

It was the first thought he had, or perhaps the last one. He couldn't tell, and there was pain, blinding him for long moments when it shouldn't be.

He wasn't accustomed to pain, and it was muddled, foggy and intangible around him, but so thick he couldn't reach through it, couldn't manage to get out of the pain. **_ERIK!_**

 _Charles._ The thought felt shaken, laden with worry and fear when he finally felt the edge of Erik's mind reach back. _It's all right. We'll be there soon. It's going to be all right._

All right.

Yes. All right, and the agony, strange, dead agony, and nothing that numb should hurt that badly, should it? He drifted away on it, and perhaps there was no thought for a good long while. It seemed an eternity, and then he opened his eyes, blinked up at a white ceiling, white curtains.

An accident. Had... there had been an accident, he was sure of it. The children. No. Not the children. Something. Something of which he couldn't truly think, not just at that moment.

 _Come on, Charles. I know you're there now._ It felt calmer, more gentle, a soothing mental touch, Erik reaching out. _The students are here._

 _Something is wrong._ So wrong, and he was too groggy, too something. _Need you._ Badly, just now. Right now.

 _I know. You were hit by a car. We'll be there soon._ There was guilt and fear mingled together, and then Erik seemed to focus. _Just stay with me._

Stay, but that was very hard. Pain came in slow waves, growing with each progression until he moaned aloud despite the tight grit of his teeth.

Footsteps came clearly across the floor. "Are you with us again, Charles?"

He didn't think he could answer, but he somehow managed. "H...urts."

"Let me get you something more for the pain." Then whoever it was went away again, and the world stretched long on time for a while.

 _I'm afraid the students insisted on coming._ He half felt a hand on his arm, but he could barely sort it through the agony. _Tell me what you want me to do._ "Hospitals make everything look worse. It's all right."

"Can he hear us...?" Scott.

"He'll be better once I increase the morphine," someone said, and he hoped it was true.

 _They shouldn't have to see this._ Whatever this was. He didn't know yet, and he was very much afraid to know.

 _They were afraid you were dead._ And as far as Erik was concerned, better to show the gruesome reality than the shaky fear.

Erik had been afraid he was dead, too. _Remember when the alien broke my leg? You blocked my pain receptors until we got off the mountain. Can you do that to yourself?_

He wasn't sure. Wasn't certain that he could think well enough to do that. The morphine was coming, though, in a warm flush that filled his veins, and that. That was going to be better, yes, very quickly. Enough so that he finally blinked his eyes managing to open them. Slowly, yes, but... he opened them. "Hi." His voice sounded thick, raw.

"Hello, Charles," Erik murmured, there at the side of the bed. He looked ragged, tired, but he was smiling. Casting his eyes out, he could see the students. Well, not Hank.

"Hello." Ah. He'd already said that. He shook his head a little, and winced. "I... what happened? Exactly?"

"You were hit by a car," Erik said quietly. Oh, that sounded bad and it felt bad. Terribly much so.

"Tell me." He had to know. It was better to know, wasn't it? Besides. He already did. He just needed to hear it, needed someone to say it aloud. Then he could do more than privately panic and try to conceal it.

"It broke your spine." _I should have sensed it, stopped it sooner._ But it hadn't crushed him entirely, hadn't hit Erik.

That was something, anyway. Wasn't it? It was... something. "How bad is it?"

The nurse was still in the room, and she seemed familiar somehow when she spoke up. "It's a fracture near your L2 vertebrae. The disc itself is damaged, as well as the nerve. It's... actually the best type of injury you can hope for in this case. We've been doing a lot of testing over the last three or four days, and the news is very hopeful."

Hopeful. What the hell could be hopeful about a spinal injury? He wanted to say as much, but the children were all there, hovering near the door, and so he bit his tongue. Bit his tongue and closed his eyes for the moment, because _spinal injury_. He wasn't awake enough to process that, not really, wasn't awake enough to roll that through his mind and come out with anything but an urge to shy away from what it had to mean.

"Could we... have a few minutes...?" Without the nurse, Charles was guessing.

Without the children would be even better.

"Of course. If the rest of your company will come with me back to the waiting room, there's normally only one person allowed back into this area."

Thank God.

Just Erik. He didn't see the door close, but he did hear it, and the disappointed noises just before it did so. Erik was still standing there beside the bed, though he moved after a half second to sit down, bringing him closer to level.

"Tell me. Everything. I... I don't. I don't know...." Didn't know what to say or do or think, didn't know what he was going to do. Didn't know what Erik was going to do.

He watched Erik lean his elbows on the bed, watched Erik watch his face. "There isn't.... much to tell. It's been a week. When you yelled for me, it was the.... first thing, first time anyone could reach you." Jean included then, because she would. Her control was poor, but she was strong, and Erik still looked scared by that idea, of not being able to reach him. "The doctors said your legs are paralyzed. You might have sensation in your hips when you've healed more. I've been moving the bedroom to the east wing, downstairs. Past your library, those rooms I never finished off."

"Dear God." He didn't know what to say, or how to deal with it. He wanted to yell, protest, make an ass of himself. "Who... what do you know? About what happened?"

"The driver's dead. When I.... deflected the car..." Erik cleared his throat a little. "According to witnesses, he'd swerved quite a bit before he crossed the road and hit us. I just caught it too late."

Charles wanted to blame someone. Erik for missing the car, or... but there was only the driver to be blamed. "Is it wrong that I'd like to dig him up and do very bad things to his corpse right now?"

The edge of Erik's mouth twitched, and he leaned forward, close enough to rest his forehead against Charles's right temple. "No, it's not. It's... this wasn't what we'd planned."

Wasn't anything like what they'd planned, and a sudden hot wash of tears trembled in his eyes and dashed downwards unexpectedly. "I don't know what to do."

"Rest. Rest and focus on yourself and I'll... come up with something." Erik was an engineer, and he thought like an engineer, and that was his safety net. The wonderful things he could do with metal.

Charles wondered if he could do something to make him walk again.

"But the driver. The driver. If he was veering in our direction... Why?"

"I don't know." And he wouldn't know, because he was dead, because Erik wouldn't just stop a vehicle, he probably threw it a hundred feet in panic.

Charles nodded, and closed his eyes, thinking desperately for long moments. "I want to know. I want you to find out. Find out for me, Erik."

There wasn't even a pause before he said, "All right. I will." He felt Erik pull back a little, wiping a thumb over his cheeks.

"Thank you." And what else could he say to that? Nothing, nothing he could think of, because they'd been together for thirty years. Thirty years, and what difference would that make to anything when his legs didn't work? When they couldn't walk together, or fuck, or who knew what else?

 _Don't think that. Don't. I fell in love with your annoying, intrusive mind first. When you pinged the back of my head and made me think about pulling teeth out._ And thirty years later they were three pieces of stainless steel that blended smoothly and were always available to Erik as on hand metal if he needed it. His hand lingered on Charles's face.

"I can't help thinking it." Couldn't stop it, couldn't do anything, didn't know what to do with himself.

"You'll do something. I will _find_ a way to make this bearable for you. You mean too much to me to just... consider anything else a possibility." At least his face didn't hurt, not much. There were probably other injuries -- he'd been in a car accident after all, only without a car to protect him. Erik had to have moved faster than he was giving himself credit, because Charles was still alive.

Even if he had questions about it.

 _I know._ And he did. He really did, and Charles closed his eyes.

He was so very, very tired.

* * *

  
He woke up before Charles.

He always had -- being a light sleeper, and not needing quite so much sleep as other people had conditioned him to it. Now it was a habit, even when he was tired and strained from nightmares, a habit that gave him a few quiet moments to himself before the day started in earnest. He was going to be teaching Hank and Jean biology until they were bored of it, maybe make them dig in the flowerbeds. Charles had said something about that, but it was a half thought while he ran his hands through his hair and tried to shake off the grogginess left after sleep.

Charles slept more than he used to. Part of it was pain -- the doctors assured them that it wouldn't last forever, but Erik didn't think that he could believe them. He'd never really trusted doctors, and these ones were too uncertain about someone who meant far too much to him.

Part of it was a difficulty facing what had happened to him. That was something Erik could understand, to an extent. He was a survivor -- the kind of person who always kept dragging forward in the face of whatever happened to him.

Charles wasn't afraid to face reality. He was just afraid to face this.

A changed body, permanently changed personal circumstances. The world hadn't changed, even if it felt like it should have. It changed their dynamic a little because Charles wasn't accustomed to needing support or help, and Erik... needed it, though begrudgingly.

He leaned up on an elbow, looking over Charles. He was propped carefully on his side between pillows gently arranged and Erik behind him for support. He was starting to get some strength in the lower trunk muscles again, slowly.

Everything was slow nowadays.

"You're thinking very loudly this morning." It was quiet, murmured, and Charles shifted himself just a bit. The faint wave of emotion that slipped in Erik's direction announced that he was comfortable, pleasantly drowsy still. It was a nice moment, very familiar.

Erik shifted, pulled the sheets back up a little before he rested a hand on Charles's side. He was still so very warm, and it was easy to settle back in. The children, Bobby in particular, had to be all but dragged from bed by their heels, so he had time yet. "Mmm. I think you just distracted me."

"Mhm." That was all, but it was nice. Charles was drifting a bit, but he wasn't in a great deal of pain, and he was, if not happy, at least mellow for the morning. It was a nice way to begin the day.

Erik was just grateful for the intimacy, for the contact that kept him grounded, that Charles hadn't pushed him away. He could've. There was a good chance that Erik would've done so if circumstances had been reversed, because... well, it was more his nature.

He closed his eyes, and kissed the back of Charles's neck. The skin tasted just a tiny bit like soap.

"I'll be all right." It was out of the blue, really, nothing at all he'd expected to hear any time soon. "I will be. Just it's very difficult right now. I'm sorry to make this so hard."

"You're not. I'm just bad at handling... things that don't have a physical solution." He repeated the kiss, and pressed in just a fraction closer. "You know I run a thought around my head endlessly. Like one of Hank's hamsters."

"Mmmm." Yes, that rolled in little plastic balls all over the house and occasionally escaped. Miss Anna held a particular aversion to the creatures, in ways that made life difficult sometimes. "I know. It's all right. It's comforting."

"Well, after this long it's either comforting, or you try to choke me in my sleep some night," Erik drawled, shifting his other hand carefully beneath Charles's other side, stroking low on his belly.

Charles gave a quiet sound, almost a chuckle. "If I didn't strangle you when last we were in Israel, I find it unlikely that I would contemplate it now."

"Well. That _was_..." Erik kept stroking the spot just beneath Charles's bellybutton, where he knew he had clear sensation. "Possibly justifiable homicide."

"Yes." Yes, and Charles's breath hitched, just a little. Just a bit, and Erik enjoyed that, a little too much, even.

"Do you want me to try...?" Just to masturbate him, just to see how much sensation he'd gained back since it had moved past hurting to attempt.

There was some hesitancy there, of course. There would be, there should be, but he could also tell that Charles was going to acquiesce. "...yes."

Erik shifted, kissed behind Charles's ear. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

* * *

  
 _"This isn't going to work."_

 _Vavrin could've told him that because even in a scenario that had been manipulated from the reality the intimacy between them was disgustingly palpable. Trying to cast blame on Magneto had failed spectacularly, and at least he and Mathison agreed on that. "No, it is not."_

 _"I want you to spin this backwards, and uh..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know. We'll have Magneto be crippled. Can you do that? Never mind, you will do that."_

 _Yes, yes. As if it could be simply that easy, as if he had some control over what they would do. Reality wasn't good enough for Mathison, no. He wanted to manipulate it to his own ends, and to the ends of their program. While Vavrin thought it was interesting -- no doubt a scientific leap -- there were too many pitfalls, too many consequences they couldn't yet see._

 _Starting with two of the most powerful mutants on Earth wasn't the most intelligent of choices. It made him doubt his own sense, because he remained standing there and did as he was told._

* * *

  
"Be careful." He called it more out of habit than anything else; the children were all old enough not to need him as a keeper crossing the street, but that didn't stop him from worrying.

"Charles, you fret too much. They're all fine, and they've promised to behave." Mostly, anyway. After all, one never could be entirely certain where children and teenagers were concerned. Erik paused, not quite smirking. "Well, or you'll know if they're not. Let them enjoy themselves." Scott didn't get out enough, and everyone seemed to be getting along for the moment.

"Yes, well. They've promised, but inevitably one of them will decide it would be amusing to do something that will show off a talent." They were fairly circumspect about their mutations, but he worried that the day would come when something would cause them to be otherwise.

They tried to lay low, tried to seem as normal as possible, though Erik was sure the day was coming when they would no longer be able to. He glanced left before stepping out onto the sidewalk with Erik. "I like to think we've trained them better than--"

It shouldn't have happened.

Later on, that was all Charles was able to think. It never should have happened, he should have been able to stop it, and the guilt was overwhelming. In that moment, everything slowed to a crawl, and he could still see it happening behind his eyes, the facade at the vast entrance coming down around them in tumbled chunks of marble and glass. Erik pushing away skews of metal and trying to protect both of them with it as it crumbled down, sending museum goers scattering, screaming, Erik shoving him away to the side and sending him sprawling

It was insane, and all the laws of physics told him that it shouldn't have been that way, that it shouldn't have happened. He'd been unable to stop it, unable to do anything at all except lie there, miraculously unharmed, but Erik...

Erik.

* * *

  
He knew it was going to be bad news without the doctor needing to come to see him, though waiting for the doctor to bring him the news that was already making his stomach knot up in tension was the polite social convention. He'd known almost instinctively when Erik had laid there, so.... so very still.

Erik was never still, and Erik was never silent to him. Even when they were on the outs, in their worst fights, Erik was always just a mental tap away. Now, it was as if there wasn't even a door to knock on. He'd had more to reach with comatose clinic patients. That worried him so much more than the drifting pieces of information he'd picked up during surgery.

Charles supposed he shouldn't have eavesdropped, but it was the most he could do when Erik was hurting and so far out of his hands. He followed it all, from the nurse staring at Erik's tattoo, to the doctor's care in surgery to stop the hemorrhaging. Crush injuries were dicey, and crush injuries that involved the spine were... Not ones that had a good outcome.

Erik had been moved to a location where he could be monitored, and the doctor was looking for words to tell Charles, rehearsing phrases in his head that could suggest a better outcome than the surgical work Charles had already seen. He was trying to soften the blow, and for some reason he thought they were brothers. It wasn't an assumption Charles was particularly eager to shake the man of; not when it would make things easier to visit, easier to find out what was going on with him.

The children were at home, despite their protests; he'd asked Miss Anna to call her sister, Lenore, and they were taking care of business without any muss or fuss. Even Scott liked Lenore, a tiny bird-like woman who handily beat him in games of multiple solitaire and then patted his hand and fed him cookies. As long as the children were settled, he could stay here, and wait.

"Mr. Xavier?"

Charles looked up, and the surgeon was standing there, waiting. Apparently he had finally worked out the words he wanted to use. "That's me."

"Mr. Xavier, I wanted to update you about your uh..." Well, when confronted with different last names, the cognitive dissonance was almost palpable, but the human brain was resilient in its ability to lie to itself. "Brother's condition. He's finally stabilized."

That was horrible as far as good news went. "Thank you very much." He knew that was good news, but there was good news and then there was the best for which one could hope. "I somehow think that's the best of the news you have for me, doctor...?"

"His spinal column was... severed by the crush injury," the doctor said. "It's going to take time to tell how much sensation he might have at the waist or below."

He'd known that. He had, but it was still a deep blow, one that nearly took his away breath. Charles didn't often feel that, but the power of those quietly spoken words shook him to his core. Erik would never be able to accept it.

"What options are available? Is there something that we can pursue, specialists or....."

The doctor looked at him as if he'd just declared he was a mutant. "I know this is hard, particularly if you, well, I hope this isn't something you've experienced before. We're going to help with... appropriate physical therapies, lifestyle changes. There isn't anything to be done for his spine. We've managed to stabilize his pelvis, which was why the surgery took so long."

That and the bleeding, and dear God. Why hadn't Erik used the metal to protect himself instead of concentrating on pushing Charles out of the way? "I understand." Erik wouldn't.

Erik wouldn't accept it. It wasn't exceptionally obvious, but Erik kept his life very controlled, very routine-oriented, in smaller chunks nested within the chaos of daily life. This was a complete loss of control for him.

"I can give you a few minutes to see him, but he's unconscious."

Charles knew that already. He was more than unconscious; he wasn't there at all. It was quite possibly the single most horrifying moment of his life, and that was saying something. "Yes. Thank you."

He wouldn't be staying there for long, just long enough to assess and plan, with a hope towards the idea that Erik would be reachable again, and soon.

"It's just this way."

He followed the good doctor -- who still hadn't bothered with an introduction -- down the hall and up a flight of stairs. They paused at the desk outside the unit's door and checked in with the nurse there. Charles signed his name, and then they slipped quietly into the ward.

The room was large, beds separated by curtains that were all partially open so that the patients were in view of the nursing desk at the center. There was that moment of feeling a half familiar mind, and he turned and glanced at the nurse as she stepped out from behind the curtain half-hiding Erik from the rest of the room.

"Mr. Xavier, Nurse Mathison here heads this ward," the doctor murmured. "And I'll remain on Mr. Lehnsherr's case while he's here, so if you have any questions, ask for Dr. Harrison."

At least he'd finally introduced himself so that Charles didn't have to worry about calling him by name without actually having been told it. "Thank you very much, Dr. Harrison. Hello, Juana. It's been quite some time, hasn't it?"

"It has." And it felt like she'd lived a varied life before she'd found her way there. The doctor was smiling, leaving them in a room full of comatose, high care patients. "I recognized Erik right away, so I hoped you were the person in the waiting room."

"Yes. We've been friends for a very long time now." Leave it at that. He knew that she suspected there was more, but she remained amicable all the same. "In fact, we currently run a school for gifted children, along with a few other friends. We were on a field trip to the Met when the facade crumbled." There was something about that, something that felt so very wrong to him, beyond what it should. He wasn't sure why.

Erik would analyze it to death when he was awake, and even as a secondhand engineer, it felt wrong wrong wrong. "It's going... to be a while before he can go home."

"I know." He'd have time to do necessary things. Move Erik's sulking room onto the first floor, move their shared bedroom, ostensibly to be close enough to help. He'd make calls, get everything Erik could possibly need or want. "I know it can be difficult telling someone what the most likely scenario will be, but...."

"He's a fighter, and I think he'll survive the next forty-eight hours. After that, he's going to have some degree of paralysis. It looked on the x-ray like the severance occurred at his L2. That means loss of leg control, but bodily functions should work as they had once he's healed. He's going to require a great deal of assistance at the onset..." She was already assuming that he would be that assistance. The fact that she had no problems with that meant that getting in to visit Erik would be easier, but she was hesitating towards the curtained off bed as if unsure that he wanted to see, probably because she didn't want to. It was interesting what people projected.

"Would you mind? If I went alone?" It was a kindness to her, yes, but he also wanted to sit with Erik for a few moments, try to reach him.

"No, I think it might be better if you did. He's very well sedated right now." And when he came out of sedation and woke up to pain in a hospital, surrounded by metal...

Then what?

Then, Charles knew, there would be chaos. Madness, because Erik would _be_ mad, insane in a way that he didn't want to contemplate. He didn't know if he would be able to control the reactions, if he'd have that kind of capability. To some extent, he could certainly make people do what he wanted -- suggestions, little pushes, even freeze someone entirely in their tracks. He didn't think that was going to work with Erik.

He'd have to see if it would. Erik didn't like hospitals. When Bobby had twisted his ankle the previous year, he'd been more nervous about having to take him to the hospital than Bobby had been.

Charles pushed back the curtain just enough to step inside, letting his eyes half focus on Erik, adjusting to what wasn't at all a familiar sight. Someone had shaved his head, which was a lovely way to reach and stitch the probably non-threatening cut on the side of his head. There was a tube in his mouth, tubes up his nose, another in his wrist.

He didn't want to think of what was going to happen when Erik woke up that way. There would be disastrous consequences. There was no way that he could go home and leave Erik here. He'd have to set up camp in the waiting room and pray that no one threw him out when night fell.

Erik's first thoughts would be capture, containment, government plot, and then he'd find a way out against all sanity and odds long before his head cleared. Someone needed to be there to keep him calm and tamp down that natural instinct.

Charles pulled up the little chair beside the bed, though, and tried to reach out to him. As a starter.

 _Erik...._

But there was nothing, just white noise, and that hurt him more than seeing Erik lying there. Maybe he wouldn't be waking up at all, because he'd never had nothing to reach out to. Nothing to hear at all, and if that was the case, Charles wasn't sure what he would do.

How he would manage.

There was nothing left to do but wait.

* * *

  
Everything was pain. Pain like climbing through barbed wire, stabs against his back that caught him off guard while he tried to get his footing, his bearings together. There had to be a reason why everything hurt, why his head was killing him, why everything felt strange. His eyes didn't want to open, like coming out of a dream, half-closed on him when he tried.

 _Erik._ So much relief, coming from outside, from Charles. _Oh, thank God. Erik. Try to be still. Don't move._

Don't move, and everything was screaming at him to do exactly that.

He couldn't keep from moving; that was one of those warnings that put up his hackles. He moved an arm, tried to lean up on an elbow, but the motion hurt like someone had cracked a boot across his back, so he sank back down, went still and tried to reach out, feeling out what was wrong with him by the patterns of his own fields.

There's been an accident. Erik, you mustn't move, the facade at the museum, it tumbled down. You need to lie still. I swear to you, I'm not lying. You know I only want you to be safe, please....

Please, but Charles wasn't there. He wasn't there, he was somewhere else, coming, but not _there_ , not within reach.

That wasn't how it was supposed to be. What if someone was making Charles say that, do that? There was no way to be sure, and everything was stabbing pain through him. He felt through the electromagnetic pulses, chest, back, arms, moving slowly because he could feel the faint disconnects, feedback on why he was in pain, clusters of nerves sending signals wildly. He was hurt; there was no question of that. He was hurt and trying to move, trying to push a foot against the bed he was on to get up.

There wasn't anything there.

There wasn't anything _there_ , and it was making him insane. Making him scream, and there were people coming, rushing towards him. Nothing about that could be good, nothing at all, and he opened his mouth, gave vent to fury.

Nothing, nothing but something he was gagging around, and he jerked a hand against the pain, jerked it despite the dizzying hurt. Had to move, had to get out, had to get himself unhooked from whatever, everything he was hooked up to, had to keep the people away from him.

"Erik! Erik, I'm here, Erik, please, you have to calm down. You're going to hurt yourself...."

But still, they could be forcing him to say that, to say anything, and Erik didn't know now if he could stop at all.

He managed to get himself sitting upright, and it hurt so much. He couldn't actively remember pain like that, real physical pain that made him want to throw up, spiraling out of control while he moved, wrenched the side of the bed down to wield like a weapon if he had to. _Charles, I'll.... I'll get us out of here._

 _Erik, you mustn't, the facade at the museum fell on you. You've broken your spine, you've..._

But he wasn't going to listen to that. It was too obvious that Charles was under duress, he had to get them out, he had to....

He felt when Charles reached out, made him go still like a hand on his chest. He felt the shock from Charles that it had worked, and then he saw, saw and felt, the facade falling, felt Charles being pushed away, felt Charles's astonishment, and while it wasn't his own, he knew it was genuine. Knew it had happened, knew that he was there, with tubes running in and out of him, lines, knew that his legs were useless, no more than lumps of flesh with fragile bones running through him, and it was too much for him. Too much, and he didn't know what he was going to do, but he had to do something, and he couldn't. He was frozen, caught and trapped while Charles moved through and past the hospital staff, shifted to stand beside the bed.

When he finally let go, let Erik move again, all he could do was twist and try to grab onto him because it as impossible and painful and everything was too much to process.

"It's all right. It's going to be all right, we'll... we'll find a way. Do you understand me? We'll find a way." Because Charles was an optimist, Charles believed that there was always some way for things to work, for everything to come out all right in the end.

Charles was something of a fool.

The pieces of metal he'd been holding onto fell to the floor, slipped from his grasp with his concentration. Find a way -- find a way to get him to accept being wheelchair bound, to get him to accept less functionality, to... _I can't focus._

"That's better." Someone else, not Charles. "Erik? My name's Juana. Juana Mathison. I'm the head nurse on this ward. We used to go to dinner parties together. If you'll try to be calm, I'm going to check your throat. Ripping the tube out probably hasn't done you any favors. It's been a rough few days.

 _I know. I know, and I'm here. Please. Be calm. I don't want you hurt any worse._ That was true; he could always tell when Charles was lying. He didn't want to let go of Charles, though. Everything hurt, and he was starting to shake, muscle spasms from the effort of sitting up against all sanity. _Don't leave._ If, _if_ Charles stayed, he could try to calm down, do what the nurse was telling him to do. If.

 _I'm not going anywhere._ A promise, firm and quiet, and he was stupidly grateful for it.

"Open your mouth for me, please. Then I'll check all of your other lines." He wondered how many other lines there were, and what each of them did.

Erik shifted, yielded, slouching a little because it hurt less to do that, and after a moment of automatically clenched jaw, he opened his mouth.

The woman was vaguely familiar -- sloppy dark hair, straight nose, and stress lines around her mouth. It was something to concentrate on instead of being touched. "Well, it's a little raw, and it's a miracle you didn't choke yourself worse. You'll be all right, though. How's the pain?"

"Bad." It was the first thing he'd said, and his throat felt sore. _Are the students all right?_ He didn't want to let go of Charles, but Erik was being leaned back onto the bed slowly, away from Charles. He kept his right hand tight against Charles's back.

Just in case.

 _The children are fine. They were well inside when the accident happened. You needn't worry._ Charles knew that he would, all the same. "There. Is that a little better?" It was a stupid question, one that meant nothing. It was for the woman's benefit, not theirs.

He gave a noise that was vague assent, grimacing as he laid back his head. He knew that feeling, and it wasn't something he wanted to think too deeply about, that shaved down feeling. It didn't bear contemplating any more than he wanted to consider the complete lack of sensation in his legs.

 _They probably need you._ And so did he.

 _I've called Lenore to help Anna, and made a few more calls besides._ Because Charles knew everything, and without a doubt had chosen to be there for him. "The children are fine, Erik. They aren't entirely pleased with their substitute teachers, but they'll live."

"As long as they're safe." Erik half closed his eyes. The nurse was carefully grabbing his left hand, probably to slide another IV in. _I wonder how many needles and things I've broken._

 _No small number. They don't seem to understand how they keep sliding out._ There was a bubble of warped amusement behind the thought that made Erik's mouth twitch into a frown.

"Let me help you," he offered, and his hands were on Erik's skin again. That did more for him than anything else.

He closed his eyes, focusing on Charles's touch. "'m a horrible patient."

"Yes. Well. There's nothing new about that." There wasn't, either, and Erik steadily began to steel himself while his nurse continued to work.

Finally she seemed satisfied and stepped back. "How's the pain?"

Oddly muddled. Erik blinked, and let his eyes drift to Charles. It felt quite a bit like that time he'd broken his leg in the mountains fighting against that crazed mutant. "Better."

"Good. There's a call button if you need anything. Charles...."

"I know, Juana. My time is almost up. Expired, in fact. I promise I'll return to the waiting room before the desk nurse comes to fetch me."

He stretched the fingers of his right hand, clutched a little more tightly against Charles's back. He was just going back to the waiting room, just the waiting room. That was nothing, that wasn't far at all, and....

And he couldn't walk. Wouldn't walk ever again. The drugs they'd given him probably didn't work because it was that fuzzy numb feeling from before, so Charles was helping the pain, And.... and. And perhaps it was a bad idea that had come to mind, but it was an idea nevertheless.

 _I want a few minutes with you here._

 _Of course._ As if he would say anything else, and Erik closed his eyes, the wash of gratefulness in him spilling over for just a moment. "It's going to be better. You're a brilliant engineer, Erik. There will be ways to... to make things work."

There would. There would indeed, and even if his shoddy idea wasn't perfect, it would be a start. He waited until the nurse was gone, and stretched his fingers, feeling Charles's muscles. _I want you to close your eyes._

 _Why?_ As if he would tell him. It didn't matter, because he did as he'd asked, just closed his eyes and waited. He had to know something was coming, but Erik was fairly certain that he couldn't imagine just what. Over the years, he'd learned to hide a few small things from Charles, and this... Well.

He had sub level thoughts, flashes, concepts not fully born upon which he could act and still surprise Charles though it wasn't something he actively wanted. It was just something that had to be done.

The oddest thing was that as he seized control of a heavy nightstand, lifted it up over his lower half, and then dropped it, all he felt was the jarring sensation, the sound of it hitting the bed as well. No pain, nothing.

There was action, then, one of the nurses screaming bloody murder, and Charles's hand was ripped from his rather quickly as people began to crowd around.

"What did you do!?" Juana yelled, and she was angry, yes, very angry, but he couldn't feel it, couldn't feel a thing. Not a bit, and Charles was shaking his head, looking white and gutted, and guilty.

Pain was starting to slide up his spine, but it was worth it, and he laid his head back on the pillow almost smugly. He stretched a shaky though to Charles, trying to flood it with warmth to soothe down the guilt that made no sense at all. _Now, Charles, they'll have to shore that up with metal._

"My God. My God, I don't know where it came from, I...."

The nurse who had seen was still screaming, right up until Juana stepped up and slapped her smartly across the face. "Get yourself together!"

"The stand." She was sobbing now. "It lifted itself!"

 _Erik. Erik, you shouldn't have done this, we could have..._ He stopped sharply.

 _We could have what? I will not be in a wheelchair. I will not be crippled._ And even a semblance of control was better than nothing.

As long as there was metal, there was something he could do.

"Get out!" His nurse was sharp, and pointed at Charles. "There's something going on here, and until I know what? You're done. Out! Now!"

"I'm going." He sounded as shaken as anyone else, probably more so.

Erik kept his eyes closed, kept the loose mental contact with Charles while the staff milled and looked panicked. _I'm sorry. I had to._

He did, and Charles was going away from him. Further away, and he hated that, but he'd had to do it.

He hadn't had any other choice. Charles would see that eventually. He would. For now, there were people rushing around him, talk of surgery, of rods, of things he'd wanted. That would have to be enough.

* * *

  
He still didn't believe it.

Never mind that he'd been told he wasn't going to be allowed back into the ICU; that for all of his patience, Erik was too much of a force of nature to be controlled. He still didn't believe he'd done that.

The shock of it had been overwhelming, and the crack of Erik's leg bones lingered still in his ears, a sickening noise that he thought he would never forget. He'd heard it once before, that sound, but he'd never considered the possibility that Erik might bring that sort of thing on himself purposely.

He should have thought about it. He had joked once when they were still in college all those years ago that Erik was the sort of person who, if he were caught in the metaphorical bear trap, would waste no time to sawing his leg off just above the injury site. It had been a joke.

It had also been a solid reflection on Erik's pragmatism, it seemed.

"Professor...?"

Of course. The children were deeply worried, had been lingering around the edges of doors, watching him, fretting. He shouldn't let them continue in their unease. "Of course. Come in, Jean."

He hadn't done anything but return home, sit down, and drink in front of the fireplace in his study. His mind was still working through the modifications their life would need in a vague way, still thrumming with shock. "How is he?"

Jean had been their first student, been there through their first curricular fumbles. She'd been more like a daughter to them than anything else. "He... broke his own legs." He should have lied. He should have done anything in his power not to say such a thing to her. He couldn't seem to help himself.

There was no one else to tell but Jean, and he needed more than the faint background feeling of Erik, still alive, sleeping at the hospital and now heavily sedated. Knocked out cold.

Charles watched Jean's face twist, twitch in horror and reaction, and he wished he hadn't said a word. "Oh. He's awake?"

Yes. "Yes. He was awake. Not... right now." No. Right now he was unconscious again, but a different sort of unconscious. It was drifting, nearly pleasant to feel, better than the lack of consciousness he'd been aware of before.

No nightmares, no pain. He'd blocked it for Erik, at least for now. The less pain he was in, the less likely he was to endanger himself later. "How is he going to be?" Other than desperate enough to break his own legs.

"I can't tell. Perhaps... perhaps you can go and see him. Perhaps one of the other children." His mouth twitched painfully into a false smile. "I'm afraid I'm not welcome at this moment. I was with him at the time."

"They should let you be there." Jean stepped in a little closer, and he could tell that she knew he wasn't happy, wasn't actually smiling at all. "What do you need help with?"

"Nothing, Jean. Thank you very much for the offer." What he needed was Erik, and Erik was completely unavailable to him. It wasn't any more distressing than his unconsciousness had been, simply starker now. "I'll be fine. You should go to bed."

"Are you going back in the morning?" She shifted, a little antsy, anxious. Of course she was concerned. She'd always been closer to Charles than Erik. Even with his psychic shielding, she was probably feeling bleed-over as well as her own worry. "We're going to need to bring his things downstairs..."

"It's all right." He tried to do a little better, tried to be more soothing. "It will be all right, Jean. We'll work on moving things in the morning, and we'll all go to see him tomorrow afternoon. He should be awake again by then."

"Okay." That soothed her a little. He could feel it because she looked at him a little less tensely. "If he wakes up before then... let him know we're worried."

"Don't worry." Saying it in no way prevented any of them from doing so. Sometimes, he was afraid that they had bred worry in the children, fretfulness. Mostly, he knew it was part of who and what they were. "I will."

Erik at least stressed action, control, growth. They both did, but Erik was more intent on action without hesitation, a long-standing friction between them. With that thought in mind, how had it not been obvious to him that Erik would do what he'd done?

"Good night, professor. You should go to bed, too." Jean was turning to let herself out. She was right. He needed to sleep in a bed instead of a waiting room chair. It would've been easier to sleep with Erik there, because even for all of his nightmares, cold sweats in the middle of the night, sleep-heavy panic attacks, he was comfortable, moved when Charles moved, didn't snore, all of those stupid petty things to which one compared bed partners. He was a comfortable, almost perfect mirror to Charles's needs and problems, filling the gaps and seams in Charles's personality, and sometimes highlighting Charles's more distasteful personality traits by displaying them himself. Charles's own occasional urges for control and order in the world were nothing compared to a man who would break his own legs rather than have them out of his mastery.

The noise was going to haunt him for years to come, the sight of it when he'd opened his eyes even more. Somehow, Erik had hidden his thoughts from him in the muddle of morphine and other drugs. He'd been so very tired that it had never occurred to him that he would need to be watching for such a drastic action, something so completely horrible. He should have known. Should have, but perhaps he'd purposely ignored it, pretended it wasn't coming in order to protect himself from what Erik would do.

He'd work that out later, after he drank enough that he'd be able to sleep. In the morning he'd start to work on his pragmatism again, on what the next step would be for them.

Once he got over the horror of what Erik had done to himself.

* * *

  
Scott had fidgeted restlessly every second in the car, to the point where even Jean had lost patience and shouted. Squabbling teenagers didn't make things any easier, and so Charles had snapped at them. It left the children quiet and left him guilty even as they trudged upstairs to Erik's new room.

They had finally moved him out of the now closely guarded intensive care unit and Charles was able to see him again. It was easier to bring along the children as well, and so there they all were, anxious and in need of reassurance down to the last man, so to speak.

Erik's new room was private, and he undoubtedly planned to preserve it like a monarch. That was obvious from the second he'd known Charles was bringing the children.

As far as Erik could manage it, he wasn't going to let it slip that anything had gone wrong at all. As far as he could manage it, because hospitals were undignified by nature, and he could feel the half dose of soporifics they were giving Erik. He wondered what nurse or doctor had decided on the importance of keeping Erik sedated. "Hello."

"How are you feeling?" It was always his first question, as it should be. Charles asked inane questions sometimes, perhaps more than other people, but he couldn't help it. It was something of a side effect of living so much in everyone's heads, his own included. "Up to the children, I trust?" They were clustered behind him in the doorway, terribly hopeful.

It was almost a relief that he felt a frisson of pain and fear and Erik's nerves ratcheting up. "As well as can be expected. It's very good to see you all." They were carefully measured words, and Erik reached out for Charles, a little desperately. _I'm sorry._

 _So am I. I should have seen it coming._ From a mile away. "All right, you can come in now. Just be careful not to jostle him."

It was odd, watching them approach Erik, nervous, hesitant because he still looked bad, in pain. Hank was the first to break the quiet. "Professor Xavier hasn't been any good at tutoring us in physics. When will you be home?"

The edge of Erik's mouth quirked. "A week." It seemed a terribly optimistic answer, but the sound of his bones cracking probably just made it worse.

"That's great!" Bobby was grinning, ear to ear, and even Scott seemed cheered to hear the news. "We've moved all old your stuff for you, and even Professor Xavier's. And there've been people doing all kinds of cool stuff, you'll be amazed."

"People, doing stuff," Erik drawled. "You'd think I've been gone for a year. Technical definitions, Bobby, or you'll never learn."

"All kinds of things," Scott offered him quietly, sidling around the edge of the bed. "People putting in rails, remodeling rooms. A lot of carpentry. We've gotten to help some."

The fact that the sheets were pulled up, neatly arranged, probably made it easier for the students. Jean looked uneasy, but she was likely picking up pieces of minds, drifting thoughts.

"Good. Everything is an opportunity to learn." _What did you tell them that they're looking at me like I owe them an apology?_

 _Nothing. I fear I might not have been mentally well-guarded the evening I finally went home. Jean is learning greater control._

The edge of Erik's mouth twitched and most of the students looked fidgety, though less worried. "I know," he finally said, quietly, "what I did seems strange. But you must always be looking for ways to stretch and utilize your abilities."

Bobby blurted out, "It's just that breaking your own legs seems...."

"Extreme." Jean looked at him, her lips pursed, and Charles almost wanted to smile.

"And now they've... strengthened my bones with metal posts." Erik still looked too pleased with what he'd done, but it was a relief that the children hadn't just accepted it. "I know it won't eliminate all of my problems, but it will afford me a degree of normalcy."

"You could always have waited until you got home," Jean pointed out. "Or gone overseas with Professor Xavier and found someone to do it without breaking your legs at all."

Out of the mouths of babes.

There was a moment of Erik looking at Jean, his mouth poised as if to say something. And then it twisted a little ruefully. "Yes, well, I've been told I don't make the best most well measured decisions when I'm in pain."

"Next time," and she knew there would be, that was the sad thing, knew it just as Charles knew it, as Erik knew it, "I hope you think before you hurt yourself worse."

"I'll try." There was an oddly quiet moment, and Jean nodded a little, while Charles caught the half thought, _it's a poor choice I hope you never have to face._

 _They're young yet. They know the world isn't going to hand them anything but..._ But they, he and Erik, had tried to protect them, at least somewhat. They didn't understand that the world wasn't going to be as easy for them as it was at this particular moment in time.

 _I hope they're never of the mindset to make similar decisions._ Erik didn't want them to be like him, which was something. He finally cleared his throat. "So."

"So." It was agreement, and Charles let himself smile. "You can all sit down, children. Tell Professor Lehnsherr everything you've saved up."

"Excellent!" Bobby was the first to sit, moving things around on the stand by the bed so that there was room for him to perch. "We have new chicks. I mean, it's not the same thing as physics class, but they're kind of fun. Jean swears they're keeping her awake at night."

It was good to see Jean feel a little animation, something beyond disapproval and worrying. "They are keeping me awake! They peep all the time. I swear it, even at night."

"Perhaps they're just dreaming about peeping," Hank offered from his muffled clothing. It was always difficult getting Hank to leave the mansion, and he rarely left without being covered from toes to brow.

"Or maybe they're just vicious psychic-poisoning chicks, out to get us all when they grow up to be evil chickens." Scott grinned at her, full of three-dollar words, undoubtedly the result of a breakfast discussion regarding his vocabulary last week.

"Well, if they did turn out to be evil chickens, what would you do? And what will you do when they don't?" Erik seemed to relax a little, eyeing them all as they settled around him. It might actually pass for a quiet visit; enough to put him back into the good graces of the nurses.

The children enjoyed it, he could tell. Sitting back and watching them interact with Erik was a relief on so many levels, from the fact that Erik was still there to the palpable relief flooding the room and his mind. It was enough to make him giddy, nearly drunk with sensation, and Charles hoped for at least one more visit like it before Erik was allowed to come home.

It felt like it was almost going to be okay when Erik promised that he'd build a coop for the chicks when they grew up to be chickens.

For the moment, that was something really quite wonderful.

* * *

  
The changes to the house were subtle, but they were nice. Of course they would be, with Charles pulling the strings. Charles had a way of making things happen, and they were always exceedingly acceptable when done.

It was good to be home.

The wheelchair was maddening. It was metal, yes, but it wasn't mobility. It served his purpose when he needed to rest while he worked through creating the engineering work he needed to get himself to a functioning state.

He hadn't, for example, given enough consideration to how to stabilize his ankles when he was standing, trying to walk.

Charles had been gently suggesting that perhaps Jean had the right idea, that they could go to Sweden and have metal grafted to his bones in better positions, or even better, contemplate the kind of elegant engineering solutions of which he was sure Erik was capable.

Patience was difficult, nearly impossible if he was truthful about it. He didn't want to be patient, he wanted to _walk_. What he had wasn't functional for walking. It was exceedingly useful for getting in and out of the wheelchair, broad motion, getting positioned in bed.

The first thing he'd done was to replace the horrible casters on the wheelchair completely, then fixed the wheels. His hands kept going to the wheels themselves rather than the grips. Those were going to be new calluses, but at least he was teaching again, dealing with the students, having a day-to-day life, and there was Charles.

He'd never been entirely sure what good deed he must have done to have Charles in his life, someone utterly suited to him, capable of balancing him when things went off into left field. Whatever it was, he was damned glad he'd done it. Charles hadn't been tripped up by what had happened. He hoped that he would have accepted the same just as smoothly had their situations been reversed. He couldn't know for sure that he would have; he couldn't know anything it sometimes seemed.

Being back at the mansion, being busy, it had helped immensely. He still had angry days, though, and days full of self-pity, and days that he wanted nothing more than to hide in his room and sulk. Friday had been a little rough, as he'd ceded his Thursday course at least until winter semester. He'd been at ends, never mind the exploring still to be done, the things he needed to see, put his own mark on so that he'd be certain it worked in just the way he wished. Charles still had his own Friday class as well as Erik's and so there was very little to occupy his thoughts except the revolving wheel of horrible things that he sometimes couldn't stop.

Sleep was the great rejuvenator for Erik, though, quiet time lying curled up behind Charles. Saturday mornings were the best because the children got themselves cereal or slept in until past any lazing time Erik wanted.

He leaned up on an elbow, looking over Charles. He was starting to get some strength in the lower trunk muscles again, slowly, making that not such a difficult thing. Charles's eyes were still closed, and he seemed to be sleeping still.

"You're thinking very loudly this morning." It was quiet, murmured, and Charles shifted himself just a bit. The faint wave of emotion that slipped in Erik's direction announced that he was comfortable, pleasantly drowsy still. It was a nice moment, very familiar.

"Busy, but not bad." He felt better after a little too much time on his hands. He shifted, pressed his mouth lazily against the nape of Charles's neck. The fact that sensation eased out to nothing past his ass was driving him slightly crazy.

"Mmmm." Charles turned, eyes half-open, mouth curling up in a smile. "That sounds good, actually."

"Which one?" He stretched his arm over him, trying to settle in as comfortably as possible. "I don't know what we could try."

"Anything you wanted. In fact." That was very good, excellent, and the image in his head, Charles astride him, that was enough to make his morning. His day.

Possibly even his week.

Charles could tell how well he responded to that without his actual words, but he still answered. "Yes." Yes, because he'd be able to feel that quite well. The same as he felt Charles's hand sliding down his belly, stroking at his navel.

"Yes sounds like just the answer I was hoping for."

He exhaled, breath a little startled at first, and then slower because he was starting to sink into the idea, turn it over in his head. The problem was always shifting, rearranging, a simple act that was no longer effortless. The hand on his stomach was almost as arousing as a hand on his dick, slower and subtler, but the nerve endings were all intact, still sensitive.

"Are you comfortable?" It wasn't a question Charles normally asked him, but it was important now, he supposed. Those fingers were teasing him now, tracing along a hip bone, spanning to brush the crease of his thigh.

The touch drifted off into nothing while he shifted, lying to stretch out onto his back a little better. "Yes. Of course, you're helping." Indeed, helping quite a lot, and when Charles's fingers closed around him finally, stroking easily from root to tip and back again, his breath stuttered with the pleasure of it. Thank God, thank God, thank God.

Sensation had been maddeningly dull and vague at first, returning only slowly, and sometimes it seemed to come back in tiny, unexpected skips. Every time it felt good was a small blessing, and Erik groaned, shifting his arm to slide it behind Charles's back, stroking towards the curve of his ass.

"Yes. Just enjoy this...." Enjoy Charles, who was shifting, moving to kiss him, all soft lips and lightly sweeping tongue. It was delicious mixture, that touch, that kiss. What he could still feel was more important than ever, and he sighed when Charles moved on top of him, kisses and warm weight and the steady feeling of Charles stroking him hard all mingling together into a blur.

Flashes of thought passed between them, things they could do, things they would do, things they had done, until Erik was panting, desperate with that steady, constant stroke. "Stop!" Stop, before he came, and Charles pulled his hand away immediately. That didn't stop the pleased grin sneaking over his face, the way that he leaned up and looked down with affection and desire written on him.

"The way I showed you, then?"

"I don't know how I'll last, but yes." Charles kneeling over his cock, lowering himself onto him, up and down and up and down, fucking himself with Erik's cock, and that was a beautiful mental image. That was something they'd done before, it was something they'd do again, and yes. Yes, he wanted that, wanted it badly.

Charles rolled, dug into a drawer for the tube they kept there, and then came back. He brought one strong thigh over Erik and then steadied himself, looking directly at him. "Would you like to do the honors, or shall I?"

"I want to." Like and want and need all rolled up together because he wouldn't be able to do much by way of thrusting, not in a controlled way. He could put his hips up with a little rough use of his powers, but nothing like before where he could ease the head of his cock in and out of Charles counter-tempo to whatever the other man was doing.

The tube was cool in his hand when Charles gave it to him, and then smiled. He leaned down slowly, pressing himself against Erik's chest, his belly, their cocks lightly pressed together even has he laid his head against Erik's shoulder. Faint shifts in motion brought shivers of pleasure through him, made him shudder.

He liked that best -- wide swaths of skin on skin, Charles's body heat, and all the time he wanted to slide lubricant over his fingers and down the line of Charles's ass crack. It wasn't just the line, but the long familiar intimate details, the wrinkle of muscle itself as he traced his finger against the edge before pressing in.

There was a curse, soft, shuddery, and Charles opened to him, blossoming heat around that one finger, and then he pulled it back, teasing, circling again before pushing inside once more. That was what he wanted, and Charles moaned, opened to him, pushed back to his hand as if all he wanted, everything he wanted, could be found right there in his palm, in the touch of his fingers. "Yes."

He never just felt it through his fingers. It was more of a total body, a sensory motion, tangled together with everything, with his fingers, under his fingers while he slowly curled them and fucked Charles with them. The feel of Charles's breath panted hot and wet against his throat, and he nudged gently, getting him to tilt his head. Kissing him, fingers deep, was a special kind of bliss, particularly when Charles's mind blossomed open with the double penetration of tongue and fingertips until one was the other and they slid together and broke apart again, kisses solidifying to kisses again because apparently the thought of Erik's tongue there was too much for Charles just then. That only made Erik smirk when he broke the kisses, smiling against the side of Charles's mouth. "Just say when."

"When." When, yes, when, and he pushed himself up, flushed with enjoyment and distinctly ready to move on. Charles shifted, reached between them to hold Erik's cock, and then slowly began to settle.

"Oh." Oh because the sensation was so good, lazy and slow and the easy push of his cock head being swallowed by Charles's asshole while he moved his hands needlessly to Charles's hips. Heat and a clutching tightness of muscle just where he was sliding in, both were enough to make him hold his breath as Charles slowly, carefully sank down onto him.

"Yeeess." His voice sounded drugged, blue eyes half-lidded as he looked down at Erik, mouth parted, entire body loose, stretched out. "Dear God, I was afraid...." Afraid they wouldn't get to have this, afraid Erik wouldn't wake from unconsciousness, afraid of so many things he hadn't voiced and that Erik only now registered because Charles was mostly unguarded now, a thing that sometimes happened when they did this. It was a testament to their connection with each other that Charles did let go like that, letting things seep out of his subconscious that didn't do so in their usual daily contact.

He stretched his hands on Charles's hips, flexing his fingers because it was a pretty picture to look at, Charles's cock flagging a little and then coming back up fast while he settled comfortably on top of Erik, while they adjusted to each other. "Just like that." Exactly, and that was perfectly what he'd been thinking of, what they'd both wanted. His thigh muscles flexed, and he shifted on Erik's cock so that both of them let out shaky breaths in unison. "Oh god. Yes."

Yes. Sometimes, when he was particularly angry, he thought the reason he kept coming back to Charles even when they were at their worst was because the physical connection was so easy, so comfortable and right. "Oh, that's good."

"Mmmm." Very good, and Charles began lifting himself and settling down again slowly, fumbling out for Erik's hand. He brought it up, let Charles use it to balance himself, and that was it, right there. Exactly like that, slow and delicious.

He moved his other hand to help steady Charles, but the feeling of interlocked fingers, the extra pressure on his arm... at least he was still quite strong in the upper body. It was a blessing when he tried a faint thrust, focusing on moving metal like muscle, using more of his back than anything. It caught Charles a little off guard, and the feeling of him clenching tightly around him was perfect. He panted, paused mid-stroke, eyes clenched shut. "If you do that again, I can't promise that I'll last." At all, and it was exquisite, still being able to make thrills course through him with a single motion.

"That's not much of a threat, Charles." He let him guide the next few strokes, though, falling into a tempo that still made Erik feel a little unraveled, a little too close to orgasm. It was slow and leisurely, yes, but it was starting to fall apart with need, Charles's very clear, obvious need, and he wanted to push him over the edge. And didn't, just kept Charles waiting with anticipation before he made he motion again, just enough to catch him on the downstroke.

It made him yell, clench down, and there it was -- Charles coming, ropy strands shooting out of his dick and over Erik's belly, his ass clamping down tightly so that Erik couldn't do anything more than try and push up again, and shudder through his own orgasm only seconds behind. He held tightly to Charles's hand through it, thrusting up loosely another stroke or so until the muscles he could feel on his back were knotted up tight from trying to thrust and thrust and thrust with nowhere to go. The echo of Charles's lasted longer, sliding between them while Erik tried to slow his breathing, other hand idling down to Charles's hip again.

Slowly, Charles wilted down onto him, sweaty and exuding a lazy bliss that felt quite a bit better than anything had felt to Erik in some time. "That was excellent. I hope we'll manage it more often."

"I think we can make the effort." He wrapped his arms around Charles, draped over his back, soaking in that lazy bliss. He had a whole day of nagging annoyances to face, and things to adjust to and twist to make work for him, but that hadn't taken much extra effort at all. _Thank you._

"Mmm. You're very welcome, although I expect I should be thanking you." Charles was very aware of the extra strain he'd given, and he was a little worried about Erik's back. He worried too much, but that was Charles, head to toe.

He pressed his mouth against Charles's lips, a brief touch, and exhaled slowly. "Nothing to thank me for. You keep me grounded. And it will be fine." Once it stopped spasming.

 _I'll get you something._ It meant moving sooner than either of them wanted to, but Erik was fairly certain he'd be grateful for it.

He just didn't want to let go, and neither did he want to be on muscle relaxants and feeling odd all day. "Mmm."

"You'll have to let me go in order to get meds." Charles was laughing, more than a little. "It's... so very good to have you here with me. I was afraid..." Afraid, yes, and that was a dark ripple of thought, quickly hidden away so that he couldn't see it. "Well. But it was stupid of me."

Only not so stupid. It could have gone very badly. Erik tightened his arms a little. "It wasn't. And I don't want the medications."

"Erik...." He'd known it was coming, the protest. "There's no point in suffering pain if it isn't necessary. Your injury is still recent, I...."

"Worry. You worry, I know. I prefer to have a clear head." Erik stretched his hands again, fingers splaying against Charles's back. "I'll try to rub it out in the shower."

"Or I could, if...."

A knock sounded, startling both of them. The door was locked, Erik was certain of that, but it didn't stop them from jumping, or stop Charles from pulling away with a hiss. "Professor?" Shit. He lay still, and felt Charles move off of him slowly. He was going to let him answer that, because they did try to maintain propriety for all that Jean knew.

"Yes, Jean?" He sounded perfectly normal, despite the fact that he still glistened with sweat, pleasure-flushed.

"There's someone here to see you."

 _Who?_ Erik started to try to disentangle himself, planting his hands on the mattress to push himself up.

"Did they leave a name?" Charles slid out of his side of the bed, reaching for his robe. Whoever it was, they would have to wait. It was rare that Charles left their rooms without his self-imposed armor of three-piece business attire.

That was going to take a while, Erik knew. That he could still get himself together more quickly said something. _And this early._

"He said he was Dr. Nathan Stark. He said that you'd probably know what it was about. Should I tell him to come back later or put him in the drawing room?"

That brought a look of concern to Charles's face, and he paused for a moment before continuing to dig in a drawer, finally pulling out socks. "In the drawing room, thank you, Jean. I'll be there as soon as possible."

"Yes, Professor."

Erik would beat him there. Hands down, he'd beat him there, because he was already shifting out of the bed, trying to stress his back into relaxing while he hauled the wheelchair over.

"Erik. You should remain in bed a while longer, your back...." Yes, was spasming, and Charles worried too much.

"We can fix it later. You can massage it if you want." But just then, someone, a stranger, visiting? No, no way he wasn't going to head out straight away.

 _At least wipe yourself down first, if nothing else._ Familiar exasperation, and really quite enjoyable. The fact that Charles treated him exactly the way he'd always treated him was exquisite.

Yes, he tried to coddle sometimes, but backed off just as quickly as he started. _God forbid they find out we're perverts as well as mutants,_ Erik shot back, teasing as he transferred himself unsteadily to the chair and headed for the modified bathroom.

The wheelchair rolled easily into the big, tiled shower, and he turned the knobs with a thought. The water started warming before he'd even transferred himself to the tile ledge, and before Charles slipped into the shower himself.

"I can't imagine what Nathan Stark would want with either of us," he said loud enough for Erik to hear him over the rushing sound of water hitting the tile.

"I can. I can imagine they worked out what happened with me in the museum and then the hospital, and that we've pegged some..." He waved a hand before he tried to lean forward and get his lower back under the water stream without unbalancing himself.

"Someone's short list for curiosity. Yes. Dr. Stark is a mathematician, a rather brilliant one. I can't imagine exactly why he's here to see me, nor do I know for whom he works. It's disconcerting." Charles came forward, and helped him by slightly changing the direction of the nozzle.

Just a little hot water did a great deal of good for getting himself together. He kept that perilous position of leaning forward as long as he could, and then went through the motions of quickly getting clean. "And you can't reach him?" That was the interesting part, if Charles was at all trying.

"I thought it best not to do so, at least until we have some idea of what it is that Stark wants. I confess, I had thought of it, but if something has caught the man's attention, or the attention of the people for whom he works, I'd rather wait until we're in the room with him. See what he says, and what I see on his face."

"I'll get there first," Erik murmured. Just to feel him out. He rinsed his hair, and shifted unsteadily from the ledge to the chair just outside of the shower. It would leave it a little damp, but it was better than tottering like a broken toy while he worked on his control.

"I'll let you." Of course he would. That was part of their arrangement, part of whom and what they were. They worked in tandem, and Charles understood things without needing to have them explained.

He wheeled himself into the bathroom proper and reached for a towel, drying himself quickly, easily. The rods in his legs made it easy for him to lift them, to get the spaces under and between his legs dry. It was just... Ungainly. He needed more practice of course. He could always need more practice on the finer edges, and it hadn't been long. In another month or three, at least by spring, he'd be out of the chair.

One of those things he had to keep telling himself.

Back in the bedroom, he got himself up standing long enough to pull on clothes. The odd thing was that while testing his tolerances and limits, Erik had realized he could levitate, with relatively low effort. That wouldn't draw attention to himself at all, no, and annoyingly, it took less concentration than mimicking walking.

Charles was still in the shower by the time he'd finished dressing, so he wiped off his chair, settled a pillow in the seat, and began the tedious work of rolling himself out to the drawing room.

It was good exercise, which Erik wasn't going to complain about. It was everything else he wanted to complain about but didn't. He wheeled smoothly over the wooden floors of the mansion, quickly, and the drawing room door opened without him having to back up and try to manage the handle and the chair.

The man sitting there was dark-haired, a little too finely put together. People probably more often wondered about him than they wondered about Charles, just from the look of him. "Ah. Professor Lehnsherr. I wasn't expecting to meet with you."

"And yet here I am. What can I do for you, Stark?" Erik wheeled himself forward, leaving the door open behind him.

"Why don't we wait for Dr. Xavier?" It wasn't really a suggestion. "That way I won't have to repeat myself."

"No." Erik leaned his arms on the armrest, watching the other man coldly. "You can repeat yourself multiple times. It helps me see what changes as your story goes."

That got him a smile. "Well. They said you'd probably be the difficult one. There's nothing at all surprising there. Fine." He stood, pulled a card from his pocket, and handed it to Erik. "I'm Dr. Nathan Stark, and I'm with S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Strategic Hazard Intervention, Espionage Logistics Directorate. That's a well manipulated mouthful." Erik held the card up between two fingers, idle as he looked over at Stark. "And you are here because...?"

"Because we believe that you and Dr. Xavier will be able to help us in our endeavors. It really is a bit complicated, but both of you are well-known, very respected in your... community." The implications there could be so many.

"I'm afraid I don't know how we could be of use to S.H.I.E.L.D., as we are merely educators and researchers." He shifted his hands, to the wheels, just feeling the metal of the chair and forcing a relaxed posture.

"And mutants." It was a very gentle statement, and Stark's expression didn't change. "Very powerful mutants, in point of fact."

Erik lifted an eyebrow at him. "If you know that then you know enough about me to understand that I am less than inclined to aid any government."

Stark nodded, and seated himself again. "Yes. That's the reason I planned to speak with Dr. Xavier first. S.H.I.E.L.D. is under the jurisdiction of the United Nations, and we were hoping that you might be willing to work with us despite that fact."

"And you think that Charles speaks for me?" As if mentioning the United Nations was a gold card of any sort for him. He still followed international politics enough to bristle badly at Resolution 3379, passed the previous year.

"I think that Dr. Xavier is less likely to toss me out on my ear before I've finished explaining what I'm here to discuss." It didn't seem to make him any more or less tense. "I'm guessing that you'd like to do that, just because of the organization I work for."

"That's a very educated guess," Erik drawled. "Why do you want the aid of mutants?"

"There are a lot of countries who are contemplating some laws and resolutions that I'm not entirely sure you'd appreciate, Professor Lehnsherr. Registration acts, for example, requiring mutants worldwide to be registered." Stark paused. "I expect I already know how you feel about that."

It left a bad taste in the back of his mouth, the way the man's lips moved, and he couldn't place why. "And I expect S.H.I.E.L.D. and the UN will do little to counter it, as the United Nations is a spineless, weak organization. It is up to us to protect ourselves from human threats."

Stark shook his head. "Actually, we were hoping that you and Professor Xavier might be interested in working with us in order to prevent the kind of potential disaster laws like that will create."

 _Erik. I'm almost ready. You haven't throttled our guest as yet, have you?_

 _He knows what we are._ "And yet I notice you don't say... prevent the laws."

"There's only so much one group can do, but with your help, perhaps we can do just that." Stark made him suspicious. Deeply suspicious, and he scowled even as he heard the sound of Charles's footsteps coming into the drawing room.

"Good morning, Dr. Stark. An unexpected pleasure," he murmured, coming to stand beside Erik.

He hated the chair, hated being seated for conversations where people normally stood. "And what do you do for S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"I'm a Special Director. I do a great many things, but for now, I'm hoping to liaise with you in order to prevent what could be a disaster of epic proportions. There are people in S.H.I.E.L.D. whose job it is to advise us at all levels if something is coming to pass that could become a worldwide disaster. We were created in 1947 in the hope that we could prevent the kind of perfect storm that formed to make World War II."

"Very interesting." Charles stepped forward and seated himself in the wingback chair, responding to how Erik felt. "Do sit and tell us what it is you would like for us to do."

He couldn't even pace properly in the damn thing, left to run his hands restlessly over the wheels, half inspired to take motion with it.

Stark sat down, finally, and crossed his legs smoothly at the knee. "We know you're very powerful mutants, though the full extent of that power is... well, unknown. And we know you've created a small haven of a school here for troubled mutants."

"Calling them troubled is a stretch," Erik growled.

"The children are gifted. They are all bright, well-behaved. It isn't the children who are troubled. Most often, it's their families." Charles leaned forward slightly. "I fear you aren't winning any allies in this conversation thus far, Dr. Stark."

"I'm sorry. It's just that the most visible representatives of mutants are usually ones who are put down by various superhero groups like the Fantastic Four or Captain America." Put down was such an easy phrase. "It's contributed to this slow hysteria about the threat posed by mutants to the population at large. Just last month, the 'Juggernaut' broke into five banks by running through the walls."

Erik could feel the tension, the sharp worry that rolled off of Charles. "There are human criminals. It will come as no surprise that there may also be mutant criminals."

"And no one hears about the mutants who save kittens and run schools," Stark pointed out. "Just the ones who murder and rob banks."

"So that is what you'd like from us, me, Erik, the children. For us to be some sort of... poster-children for the well-behaved mutant community." Even Charles didn't like the taste of this on the back of his tongue.

"That would be a start," Stark said with a faint smile and an inclination of his head. "More importantly, I'd like you to at least nominally work with S.H.I.E.L.D. when we have emergencies to deal with. You don't have to operate as yourselves. Come up with a name, a costume, a mask, and very few people will bother linking it back to the school."

Well. Fantastic. The man wanted them to dress in ridiculously colored spandex and fight the proverbial bad guys, namely Charles's ass of a stepbrother. If he'd known the sheer trouble the man would cause, he could have put them both out of their misery years ago.

"I suppose you've given us something to think about," Charles said slowly. "I'm certain you aren't expecting any sort of immediate answer from either of us. I will say that no one at this school will tolerate the children being placed in any position where they will be harmed or ridiculed, and I fear what you suggest would do exactly that."

"We can keep the school out of it until you have at least some older students, though I still think it would be beneficial," Stark said as if they'd already agreed.

"I'm afraid I'm in no condition to be 'superheroing' around, and I'm certainly not letting Charles do it." He'd keep the glass jaw jokes between himself and Charles.

 _It's an interesting proposition. Perhaps a little too interesting._ Charles sat quietly, looking at Stark. "You'll understand that we can't give you any sort of answer today."

"Of course. I can come by next week...?" A deadline, of course. "And I think we both know how capable you are, Lehnsherr."

"No, Stark, you have no idea." He was up and standing, only not, because he wasn't focusing when he moved to haul Stark out of the chair by his shirt collar. "You do not get to come into our home, our _school_ , and start to make accusations and thinly veiled threats on behalf of the United Nations."

"Erik!" Charles's voice was sharp. "Perhaps it's best if you don't break our guest just yet." _I suspect doing so would make life rather unpleasant for all of us, although I can't say I'm particularly fond of him, either._

He weighed the emotions behind those words more than the words themselves. Erik still had Stark held by his shirt-front, feet dangling in the air, but the other man was smirking, unfazed. "If you ever threaten us again."

"I understand. You'll cream me into something resembling tomato paste with the nearest metal object. Perhaps we should have looked elsewhere for law-abiding citizens."

He had to give it to him; the man had balls the size of cantaloupes.

Clenching his jaw, Erik let Stark drop back into the chair, and levitated back to his wheelchair. "Perhaps you should try other tactics than baiting law-abiding citizens into violence."

Charles folded his hands in his lap and gave a polite smile, one that would have chilled a normal man to his bones. "We'll call you when we have made a decision, Dr. Stark. I suggest you don't return to the school unexpectedly meanwhile."

"Not to worry. I'll be back, say... next Saturday morning?" He started to stand up. "And I think I can see myself out."

 _Try not to kill him before he gets to the highway. It would create a bloody mess, and it would very likely bring disaster on us._ "Do be careful on the way out the door."

 _I'm not going to kill him._ Yet. Erik leaned back in the chair, watching Stark smile and nod and leave, and what the hell. Now it was clear that saying no would get them into as much hassle and trouble as saying yes.

Charles waited until he heard the front door shut before speaking. "He's an infinitely practical man, Stark. A scientist, but also very much an administrator. I don't know that we have very many options, Erik."

He shifted, restless in the chair as he closed his eyes. "What do you want to do?"

"Think about it. Try to decide how best we can protect the children and ourselves." Charles sighed. "I can't see that we have any choice other than to agree to be S.H.I.E.L.D.'s pet mutants.... at least for the time being."

"I don't want you at risk. You're not..." Erik waved a hand slightly. "I'd rather have you here with the students."

That was a particularly sharp, dirty look. "I'm not incapable of taking care of myself, Erik. You know that."

"Yes, and we've been a fantastic team when we've had to handle situations together. But if we're both out doing this, what protects the students? I know you're not incapable." The unspoken _'I'm not incompetent,'_ was fairly audible in Charles's voice.

"Then we'll have to take turns if that's what you want but until you've healed more, developed a more finely tuned control, I can't see where you need to be out doing the sorts of things that are likely to be suggested at all." Charles stood. "I don't like the idea of being their pawn, but at this time we have few options."

Erik felt his mouth turn down in a mixture of anger and resignation. "We'll find a way to turn it to our favor." They'd have to find a way, or the children might suffer for it. They didn't have to like it.

"Sometimes working from within is the best way to reach one's goal. We can only hope that it will prove to be so this time." Charles rubbed a hand over his face. "Let's worry about this later. Shall we have breakfast?"

He wanted to worry about it right now, right then. Erik looked at Charles, and the lack of response was enough. "Yes. Bobby's probably already rotting his brain with cartoons."

"He's only a bit younger than the others, Erik." But still. "I think I'd like crepes."

That was the sign for Erik to begin cooking. Ah, well. He knew his lot in life, at least.

* * *

  
Spandex was terribly, horribly unbecoming.

Really, whoever had the idea that spandex was a perfectly marvelous fabric for superheroes obviously had deep-seated exhibitionist tendencies. Charles just felt damned uncomfortable thinking about it.

Erik was trying not to smirk. He was an engineer, and had solved the problem for himself with metal he'd woven into a mesh almost boredly, but that wasn't something Charles thought he could tolerate. That left spandex. Somehow, he didn't think it was going to stand up well against villains, and really, what was he supposed to do? Think them to death?

"You said you didn't want to stay home," Erik drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn't in a stupid costume, no, just the stripped down wheelchair he'd been modifying for himself and normal clothes with no spandex involved. "That's not at all protective. Just... let me reinforce it. With anything. Cardboard would do better just now than that."

There was nothing else for it. "Thank you. At least we aren't required to wear red, white and blue." Or purple. Metropolis's Warrior Angel was an eyesore that would leave almost anyone temporarily blinded. It could be much worse. "I suspect the children would laugh us off of school grounds."

"I might join them. Take it off and I'll fix it." A little metal, but Erik swore and had sworn he'd never notice it once it was on. Then again, he'd seen Erik's costume. Between them, neither of them apparently had any taste in color or design, though the helmet Erik was working on at least obscured his face. It also blocked out a great deal of Charles's ability to read his mind, which was disconcerting. All right. Truth be told, it was disturbing, and he didn't like it. Erik felt smug about it in some ways, but also uneasy. They'd been in one another's pockets for far too long to feel comfortable when separated.

Charles stripped off the spandex -- hidden zippers were difficult, but not impossible -- and stood there wearing little more than a jock strap. "We'll talk to the children when we're done, I suppose."

"I still think this is insane. For the record." Erik licked his bottom lip, waiting for Charles to hand him the uniform. Usually Erik's attempts to pick things off the floor ended up with him overbalancing and on the floor as well.

He handed it over and crossed his arms over his chest. "I agree completely. Unfortunately, we'll go ahead with it anyway." Of course they would. S.H.I.E.L.D. more or less had them where they wanted them.

He disliked that feeling. It didn't feel foreign, which was bothersome, that faint sense of déjà vu. He watched Erik eye him one more time before he wheeled over to the table to grab the ball of metal out of which he'd been nigh on boredly making thread for his own costume. The helmet was sitting on the table, almost taunting him.

"You're very quiet, Charles, for a man whose ass is hanging out."

"Yes. Well. There's something... something that isn't quite right. I can't place my finger on it, exactly," he confessed. "It's almost familiar. Just a touch of something, someone...."

"You, too, then?" Erik picked up the helmet and settled it on his lap, leaving the metal there. "It felt like I was just making changes to this thing, rather than making it for the first time. It feels like it's an old habit, not a new design."

That worried him, made him question reality. What if it wasn't the first time? "I'll keep chipping away at it. It's nothing specific so much as...." Just an overwhelming sense of things being wrong, out of place.

Out of time.

Erik wasn't going to let it go. He wheeled closer, and idly floated the helmet over to Charles. "Put it on. Don't think about it, just do it."

Reaching out, he laid his hands on it, palms down. The inside was lightly padded and rested gently against the curve of his skull, and the effect was immediate. The world muted around him and he couldn't stop the violent shudder that worked its way through him.

It was like being submerged in ice water, a shock, a loss of the normal background noise he was accustomed to hearing. Erik was watching him patiently, and then he stood up from the chair, unsteady as always, reaching for the helmet. He didn't lift it off, though -- he reached to the edge at the back and rolled fingers over a switch that Charles hadn't even noticed was in the lining. "Now, let the connection drop."

Easier said than done. Erik had been in his head for thirty years now and he was almost afraid to let it go. He wasn't sure he knew how to function without it, and for a moment, he held on to it simply because the fear was too great.

Reaching out, he laid one hand on Erik's, and took a single deep breath.

He let go.

Everything hurt. Everything, he could feel hurt, his arms hurt, his chest hurt, his head hurt, and he could hear almost hysterical coughing from beside him, Erik coughing, only his eyes were slow to open, crusty and thick-feeling.

"Oh shit. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit."

It wasn't one of the children; no, it was a man, a man whose thoughts he recognized immediately and instantly moved to try and stop him in motion, paralyze him into stillness. Charles couldn't quite seem to get himself together enough for it to work, though; something was very, very wrong.

He heard metal slamming violently, though, something scraping across the floor hard, possibly as blindly as he was trying to stop that mind, but very effectively. "Shit, shit, shit! Vavrin, hit the alarm!"

"I don't think so."

It had been a long time since he'd heard Erik that angry; a lifetime, and Charles wanted to laugh a little, a bad sign. There were two sets of memories in his head, of what Had Been and What Was, and they were just two steps apart all the way.

Mathison was really quite brilliant, despite his character flaws.

He was still wincing when he opened his eyes, the light piercing right through his skull it felt like. He half-saw Erik moving, getting off the table, metal table, what a horrible choice to make when Erik felt, heard metal all the time, subconscious, part of his being. "I want answers."

"Fuck! Don't you have the tranquilizers!?"

"Bad idea," Charles slurred, trying to push himself upwards. The overwhelming disconcertion of being unable to move his legs made him sick, made him almost as angry as Erik, and he held out a hand towards Mathison's thoughts and stopped him mid-stride. Froze him, and there was someone else in the room, near the door, who turned and ran. There weren't any alarms sounding, not yet, but it just was a matter of time, Charles thought. Mathison stayed frozen, possibly not even breathing until Charles pushed the thought of sleep at him so easily. So much easier than it had been in the other set of memories, dropping Mathison to the floor like a rock.

Erik was standing, albeit unsteadily. He looked thin, hollowed out, not at all like the healthy Erik that Charles was used to, and he had to wonder if that was why he was having so much trouble pulling himself together. _Don't move. I'll get you out of here._

Erik, getting him out, and Charles did laugh then, an unsteady sound that broke a little. "I'm not going anywhere, I don't think."

Ah. There went the alarms. Wonderful.

"No, we're getting out of here. I wouldn't worry about that. They didn't bother with enough redundancy." At least for the moment, Erik seemed panic-energized enough to keep moving, coming over to the table and unstrapping Charles's legs without saying a word about it.

Things were strange, backwards, and with Erik's memory reinforcing his own, it made his own ability to differentiate between what was real and what was created by Mathison waver. "Erik..."

"We'll work out what's real later." Erik was sliding an arm behind his back, another behind his knees, and it was as if he'd done it before because he picked Charles up like he was a puppet, like it was nothing. But Erik had been paralyzed for so long now, what felt like so long, every day recent and fresh and agonizing. Only Charles couldn't feel the arm behind his knees.

It was fresh and distant all at once, and he wasn't able to deal with it now. Instead, he slid an arm around Erik's neck and sent out a searching thought to find anyone coming their way. The presences in the room disappeared, lights snuffed out with heavy metal thuds. He discovered quickly that it was late, and there was little more than a skeleton staff. Charles stopped the two security officers in their steps, and it was so easy that he was a little afraid. It had never been that easy to reach out, never so simple to stop a mind gently, to slide what he wanted to happen into someone's brain.

Erik seemed to be heading towards a door, feeling out for exits no doubt. His pace was quick enough that it seemed like, alarms or no, they were going to get out of there -- wherever there was -- quickly.

"I want to know what's going on." Immediately if not sooner. He wanted to know where their children were, how long they'd been there. He wanted to know everything, if only he could stop reeling.

"Once we're out of here." Erik seemed to feel something, because he started to run, around a corner and down a hallway that seemed to lead deeper into the place as far as Charles was concerned.

He didn't expect Erik to jump up, his shield flaring out to punch through the ceiling, and then they were in the air and free of the complex.

Erik wasn't that strong. He wasn't, except he was, just as Charles was strong enough to stop people dead in their tracks if necessary.

The wind was icy, and it whistled in his ears so that he had to yell. "We need to go to the school." The children, all of his children -- not just Hank, Bobby, Jean, and Scott. All of his children now, dozens of them, even their original children had children now.

He felt Erik get his bearings, taking a moment to feel out the magnetic fields. _No. No, you don't live there anymore. I..._ Confusion and rage that someone would get into his head like that spilled from Erik over to Charles.

It was difficult, that memory, bursting to the forefront. The school had been his home for two lifetimes, perhaps even longer. Utopia didn't seem real in comparison. "I want to go home."

 _I know._ Erik veered, seemed to know where he was going as his own brains started to catch up with the reality they were in. It was for the best -- they were so high up, and it was cold and he was in pain, they both had to be in pain. He half-remembered Scott telling him he shouldn't leave Utopia, knew Scott was leading the team, the students, that had been his for so long.

It was enough to make a man wish he could go back to memory entirely.

Instead, he tightened his elbow, and ducked his face so that he could hide his eyes against Erik's throat. The wind was vicious and freezing, and there would undoubtedly be someone after them in short order. _We should find somewhere to hide._ Somewhere to recover before they continued, and he would try to reach Scott. Erik was master at hiding, a master at hidden bases, safe locations, and even though he'd renounced it, Charles was sure that he still had hundreds scattered around the world. Bits of old schemes hidden away, stockpiles and storage places because Erik was always afraid of being helpless, of being unable to find refuge.

It only took a few minutes before Erik was touching down on the ground again, in woods this time, opening a well-hidden metal door. All Charles needed was a few minutes to get himself together, to work out what had happened, to get clothes, before they headed on for Utopia.

* * *

  
"These will have to suit for clothes." They were the remainders of Acolytes' uniforms, but it was clothing. The fact that he'd made a hasty pile of rubbish to burn on the middle of what had once been a control room spoke to the fact that Erik knew he was never getting the power running in the facility, not in a timely manner.

On the bright side, there was food to be had, food that Charles looked like he desperately needed. Erik probably looked as bad off, but he was very carefully not looking for any reflective surfaces to see. _I'm sorry that it wasn't me. The accident._

"You shouldn't be." Charles meant that despite the fact that he was obviously having a difficult time of things. "It's obviously for the best that it wasn't. No broken legs."

"I could compensate for it." Angrily, yes, but he could. He sat down beside Charles and tried not to think too hard on the fact that there were enough spare capes to use as blankets to keep them quite warm. "I don't remember being taken. Were we in Utopia when it happened, or elsewhere?" Not that Charles knew.

"Truthfully? The last thing I remember clearly is Scott begging us not to go." Yes. He thought he remembered that as well, or perhaps it was only the connection he had with Charles letting him see the things Charles saw. Remembered, more or less.

They'd done that on and off throughout the years, haunted each other's minds, lived in one another's back pockets. Sometimes he could no longer stand it and sometimes it was the one thing he craved the most in the world, and neither sense had much relation with whether they were at war at that particular time or not. "Curious. We were headed somewhere away, then. But it hadn't felt urgent." For all he knew, he'd been escorting Charles to some United Nations event. Actually, that felt more likely than not, though there were at least some members of that esteemed crowd who would've panicked at the sight of him.

He dropped his eyes to the open but still untouched MRE Charles had beside him. "You should eat the cornbread. It won't make you sick."

"Just at the moment, it feels like almost anything would." Still, he picked it up and began to nibble it. "Mathison. I remember him. He was quite unhealthily obsessed with some of the early experiments we did."

Ah. The monkeys. It was Erik's fault that Charles had switched from a research psychologist to a clinician, though that wasn't among the things that Erik felt any remorse for having done. He settled shoulder to shoulder with Charles, carefully eyeing the contents of his own MRE. "Seems that he held that pattern. He's dead now."

"I quite liked his wife. She was very strong-willed." And she had likely made his life a living hell. "Meeting her again when... after the accident, it was unexpected."

"Meeting her after two separate accidents was also unexpected," Erik murmured, still watching Charles with concern. He still remembered the despondence Charles had fallen into after his actual accident, and it was new and fresh again to Charles. Erik would have traded anything to have been the one hurt because he still felt freshly acclimatized to it.

"Yes." Charles quietly ate bites of his MRE. "I seem to believe she was there. Originally." He paused. "I never understood why she married him, you know."

"Poor taste in companionship." The same, he supposed, could be said of Charles. Erik absently picked through his own MRE, not quite sure of what returning to Utopia and letting the others know would accomplish except a fine layer of humiliation and the knowledge that someone was trying to manipulate their minds.

"Or more likely she believed that once married, one shouldn't divorce. They had children, you know." Grown now, but orphaned still. He couldn't find itself in him to regret killing the bastard.

He'd seen enough death, caused enough, suffered enough, not to care, in point of fact. "I'm sure they'll honor him inappropriately at his funeral." But now that he'd had time, he knew he was going home. He was going back to Utopia, and while Charles had lost everything in the mansion, Utopia was his home. Built and designed and tended to by him.

Still was.

"I'm sure." Charles laid aside the MRE and sighed. He looked exhausted, and worse. "I can't. I'm sorry. Let's... Can we rest?" _And then we'll go. To Utopia._

"Yes." And would it be as safe as Genosha wasn't? Except he needed to try. Over and over again, he needed to try. Erik shifted, sliding an arm behind Charles's shoulders. "Just lean on me."

Lean. He was strong enough to hold up Charles for as long as he had to hold. As long as he didn't get a good look at himself, he wouldn't doubt his ability to do just that.

Charles sighed, and slumped to the side, eyes closed. "All right."

They'd be safe soon, and he could fall apart after he'd done what he could. Then, they'd work out what had happened, who, why, what else had been accomplished. For the moment, he could steady Charles while he drifted towards exhausted sleep.

* * *

  
 _We're a minute or so from landing, Charles. Please reach out to the X-Men and tell them what you can._ Erik was still flying, trying to avoid passing over the populated areas, staying safe, but Charles could feel him tiring and Erik seldom, never, tired.

The children. It had been such a long time. It felt like eternity, like they were still children, even knowing that they weren't. That they were grown, that they had children of their own, even. _Scott._

He felt Scott's head jerk, and there was the knowledge that there were telepaths who were easy to reach, except Jean was dead -- Jean, dead, little Jean, caring, giving Jean -- and Emma had seemed to take her place as much as she could.

He didn't want to deal with Emma or Scott, but Scott was at least familiar as a concept. _Professor?_ That was startled, shocked. _Professor, where are you?_

 _On our way home. Erik is flying us in now, although assistance wouldn't be denied._ Erik might try it, but he was exhausted, just as Charles was. There was no reason to deny any help that came their way.

 _Where have you **been**?_ There was worry, outrage because he was not supposed to leave Utopia. He was too much at risk out there. _You've been missing for months._

Charles shook his head a little, face still tucked against Erik to hide it from the chill of the wind. _I know. I know. We'll explain everything when we arrive._ It was too much to try and explain this way when they were both tired, both ill. _Just... send someone._

 _We are._ Cautiously, he was sure, because what if it was a trap? It was always a trap, or it felt like it was always a trap. Erik kept flying, coasting the magnetic waves a little more than he usually did. It felt different to Charles. It didn't seem fast enough, though he knew how fast Erik flew and how fast the others flew. After a few more moments, he saw Ororo coming towards them, Warren riding in her wake. Thank god.

"I thought perhaps you'd appreciate the help. I know you're exhausted." They were both fatigued, pushed beyond their last by everything. They desperately needed rest.

"Thank you, yes." Erik was faltering, but he stayed steady enough to hand Charles off to Ororo. "I can make it the rest of the way on my own."

"Oh, Charles...." He didn't even have to probe to feel her concern, her worry.

"It's all right." It wasn't, but they'd make it through all the same. "We still don't know what they wanted. I suppose it's possible that we never will."

Which Erik would find wholly unacceptable as an answer. Warren was watching them all, waiting in case Ororo needed relief, in case Erik faltered. Erik didn't, not until they were in sight of Utopia. It was just a tremor in his arms, at first, a slight drop in altitude, but Charles knew it was coming.

"Storm!" Erik's arms fell lax, and then he was tumbling, but Ororo was there, and Warren. Ororo had him, and Warren had Erik, and that was good. "How is he? He wouldn't let me call any of you sooner."

"Unconscious!" Warren sounded almost startled, but he had Erik under the arms, and it wasn't far at all now.

That was in no way surprising. "He's been pushing himself ever since we broke free." Wouldn't look at himself in any way, and Charles understood why. He did, because if he knew how bad he looked, he might have faltered. "He was... very angry."

"I am very angry as well, Charles." Ororo sounded tightly coiled, angry. "We will be home soon. You both need to be in the infirmary."

Erik worse than him, he was sure. He'd not seen himself, but Erik certainly looked bad enough that he feared it wasn't good, and he'd forced himself further and further despite Charles trying to get him to give in and let him call someone for help. "Yes. I'm sorry. He wouldn't...." Well.

He was Erik, and there wasn't much explaining that to them. There wasn't a need to, because he was Magneto, man who never stopped even when he was an ally. He'd nearly killed himself pulling Kitty back from space, and that had been a mere gesture of atonement. "You are both home now. Rest, and we will start to find what happened."

And they were. He could see the outline of Erik's fallen fortress, the cities they were building atop and within it. It was easy, now, to close his eyes and drift on a wave of familiar thoughts, halfway unconscious, to listen out for Erik. He wouldn't bother paying any attention to the children, mostly because they didn't pay a great deal of attention to him, either, these days. It was petty, but just at the moment, his heart was a little broken by the fact that things weren't well between them. It was too much, too close, and he wasn't prepared to deal with it. Not yet.

He needed time to heal again, because what felt like hours ago had been a completely different circumstance, from happier days. Erik was blank, unconscious from exhaustion but present and well, not that terrifying emptiness that had never actually happened. Not unless Charles had inflicted it on Erik, and he had, once. He'd cored out Erik's mind, and Erik recovered, healed, moved on.

Dear God, there had been wickedness between them. It was no wonder the children had chosen sides, or that he'd been on the losing end of thing at the last. At least Erik had his terrible past to explain his behavior.

It was a miracle that they were even speaking again, that they had been before Mathison had gotten his hands on them.

They landed gently, and there were already people gathering, stretchers ready to take them to the infirmary. He could finally rest without having to be alert to watch for Erik.

They could both rest, and the relief of that thought was enough for Charles to let go and drift off into a restless sleep.

* * *

  
"Knock knock."

"Bobby. Cut it out."

"Knock knock. C'mon, Scott, seriously. It's not going to kill you to crack the occasional smile. Probably. Okay, never mind. It would. You'd keel right over, because a smile might crack the ice. And I should know."

Scott sighed, arms still crossed over his chest as he stood in the infirmary. "All right. Who's there?"

Bobby grinned at him. "Boo."

"Boo... oh, god. Bobby." Scott rubbed a hand over his eyes, and he looked pained. It was awesome to watch. "Fine. Boo who?"

"There's no need to cry about it, Scott. It's just a knock-knock joke." Yeah. It was stupid, but it was also completely awesome because that look was just. Perfect.

That smirking agony was worth it. "I thought you'd come down here to be useful."

"I'm always useful." Or mostly useful, anyway. "So, they're back again. What the hell, man? Seriously. I mean, the professor is pretty much retired, and Magneto...." Well. He was as retired as Magneto would ever get, he figured. Professor Lehnsherr. Magneto. It was funny, how they thought of him. Okay. How he thought of him.

He was going by straight up Magneto now, no other names, but he wasn't unhinged, so if he just wanted to be a mutant name, that was fine. "And Magneto is one of us. I don't know where they were going when they left or where they've been for the last few months."

"None of us knows." Well, until Emma came in, and Bobby had to admit that it was a little creepy sometimes. What he accepted in Professor X he had a kind of twitchy feeling about in Emma. It would be a double standard if it weren't for the fact that he'd been exposed to the professor before he was old enough to be wary of psychics.

And then there'd been Onslaught. It had kind of screwed him up a little about telepaths, and the Professor. "Emma wants to wait until they're conscious." And they weren't, they totally weren't. Magneto looked like he was fucking Skeletor with better hair, and the professor wasn't far behind.

"Probably for the best. I'm pretty sure neither of them would be too happy about us digging into their heads while they're out of it." Yeah. And there were a lot of things in the world that had to be better than pissing off those two because Magneto was nice and awesomely happy now, and useful, which was great, but who knew when the light switch was going to flip and take that out? And Xavier hadn't been the same since they'd come there.

He hadn't been the same for a long time. "No, probably not." Scott was frowning as he paced over towards the beds. "We know, knew, that they flew. That Magneto transported the professor."

"Which is about the long and short of everything. They look like hell." And then some. "I'm thinking that it's a miracle they got here."

"I'm not surprised that they did. They should have reached out sooner..." But. They still didn't know what was going on. "If the professor had just stayed here..."

Yeah. "You can't keep him locked up here all the time. No matter how you feel about things, Scott, the man's grown. More than grown. He's raised you, me, hell. More of us than anybody else ever did. And okay, there are... issues...."

Issues being a short term for a lot of crap.

"Until things turn around, Bobby, the professor needs to stay here. Where it's safe." Where it was almost safe. Lots of kids, lots of training, lots of friction as people got to know each other.

"It's hard to argue the point, considering the state they're in." All because they'd left Utopia for some minor political bullshit. It kind of figured, in all honesty. The professor lived for those mind games, and Magneto had probably been willing to go along just to go along. It was hard to guess why. But...

Bobby glanced over when he saw Magneto's hand move, pawing at the threads of the oxygen tubes. Scott's eyebrows went up. "Emma will be down here soon. Maybe we can finally get answers."

"If waking up doesn't equal a total freak out. I don't know about you, but I'm stepping back. That guy's got a wicked curve ball." A disaster averted seemed pretty good for once, and Scott was fond of them. He'd been worn around the edges lately. Not that Bobby wondered why he was worn around the edges. They were living a plan strung together with spit and string, and....

"I see we made it home."

"By the skin of your teeth." Scott sounded even more forbidding, if that was possible. Bobby wished he could help the guy relax, but he knew from experience that there wasn't any helping Scott until he decided that he wanted it.

Magneto's mouth moved with almost amusement. "Not an un-admirable standard, then. We were being held in an American government facility."

Well, shit. "Any idea what they wanted?" Bobby snagged a chair and pulled it between the two hospital beds.

"No. They were using Charles's abilities against us both." Magneto sat up. Well. Leaned hard on both elbows when he really shouldn't have been.

"Dammit." As if Scott could get any dourer. "I told both of you he didn't need to leave the island."

"Grown-up," Bobby reminded him firmly. "Able to make tall decisions in a single bound and all that."

"How long have we been gone?" Magneto asked, over top of all of Scott's grim bullshit, like he wasn't even talking.

"Long enough we thought you were dead," Scott said, and Bobby rolled his eyes. Like they were ever really dead. He was starting to think maybe they were immortal. It was kind of a creepy thought.

"More like six months." It was a better approximation.

"I've relived the better part of my life in the last six months. From meeting Charles in college until a few months after the Accident." Maybe it was just Bobby hearing the capital A, but that shit took him back a few decades. Yeah, the Accident, when Magneto had quietly unhinged -- first of many times, probably the straw that broke the camel's back -- and Xavier had started the 'can't walk, can walk, can't walk, can walk again, shit, there it went again' cycle.

It was currently on the downswing after a brief recovery. Remy had bet he'd be walking again in another year or so.

Bobby's money was on nine months.

"It's good to know you have some faith in me." His voice sounded as if his throat was parched. It probably was so Bobby reached out and lifted the pitcher, pouring a tumbler full of deliciously cold water -- even if he did say so himself. The professor drank it down, a little fast at first, then slower.

"Of course I've got faith in you. Even if you go carting off looking for trouble. Which, you know. Just goes to show."

"Relived your life?" Scott was frowning, obviously trying to figure out what that could gain anybody. "How?"

"There was a machine. Very ingenious." The professor looked at Magneto. "You have to give Mathison credit for that much."

"I give him credit for nothing at all," Magneto murmured, looking sideways at him. "He was trying to rewrite our history. Break my spine instead of yours. I'm sure he had a very precise brainwashing scheme laid out, though to what ends...."

Bobby frowned. That was just freaky, the whole idea of it. He didn't imagine Magneto had handled that all that well.

Xavier closed his eyes and sighed. "They wanted us involved with the UN. With S.H.I.E.L.D. There had to be some reason behind it."

"I don't know what." Magneto seemed content just to lean up on his elbows, quietly scanning the room. They were probably doing mind talking, which made Bobby immensely grateful he'd never been a telepath.

Particularly when the door opened, and Emma swept in, all bustier and white leather. She liked being looked at, and she was the only thing that softened Scott even just a little. "Charles, why didn't you reach out to us sooner?"

The professor laid back, closed his eyes. "Magnus thought it would attract attention. We were decidedly against that happening."

"I was very confused for a while," he admitted slowly. Yeah, if Bobby woke up and suddenly thought it was the seventies again, he would've been confused, too.

"We were both confused. It was... There were deviations in reality. Divergences upon alterations upon aberrations." Xavier opened his eyes and looked at Emma. "As I'm sure you can tell."

"Give me a little more time." She was watching the professor, and probably sifting through his mind, and Bobby just leaned there and waited. Yeah, this was The Adult Crap and he wasn't actually actively invited. Didn't want to be invited, in point of fact, because being invited meant he'd have to be the grown-up in the crowd. He could be if it was necessary, but he'd rather keep on pretending that he didn't belong in that particular category.

Magneto was watching intently, and then he grimaced. Bobby figured he could pour the guy a glass of water and then probably make his exit because Magneto was wearing that expression that said accidental stories about the time he put ice in the TV were about ten minutes away.

Some things, he wasn't meant to suffer, not if he could help it, anyway. "So, uh. Things to do, ice to make, people to screw around with." Magneto was looking at him with a distinctly softened expression, and yeah. Time to call it quits when the old guys got nostalgic. He also remembered the time Magneto had threatened to throw him out a (first story) window after he snowballed him in the back of the head.

"I'll see you at tomorrow's meeting," Scott said over his shoulder.

"Yeah." Bobby held back a sigh. "I'll be back later, check on you guys."

The only good thing about the meetings was the opportunity to harass Namor about porpoises. And dolphins. And the occasional squid.

Maybe tomorrow would be a great time for jokes about tentacle monsters, he decided, and strolled out.

* * *

  
"I'm going to have to give you both a clean bill of health, with a laundry list of caveats." Hank looked as if he wished he had an actual list to hand them but he didn't. It wasn't necessary. As soon as he left the infirmary, Erik was going to lie down in the bed in his room and go back to sleeping, albeit in a better location. A more comfortable location, one with a passageway that led to Charles's room. There were advantages to living somewhere he'd more or less created.

"We'll be good," Charles promised, and he was smiling, a little quirk of lips that made Erik want to smile himself. "And if we can't be good, we promise not to get caught."

"It's been a while since I've seen you in such good spirits, Professor." Hank was peering over his glasses at him, and yes. Yes, Erik knew when it had been, too, before Wanda had turned the world upside down.

"It has been a strange last few days, readjusting," Erik murmured, standing. All of his muscles ached and his powers felt too much for the state his body was in. The temptation to use it wasn't going to be one he could give in to at the moment. He'd be fatigued in no time.

Charles nodded. "Yes, but you have to admit. I'm a great deal better at dealing with my particular infirmity than you are. I keep expecting you to break my legs, or perhaps to ask Hank if we can have rods inserted so you can puppet me about now and again."

"Do I even want to know?" He hadn't thought that much blue fur could always remain quite so expressive, and yet. Hank remained still very much himself, despite all the changes.

"I was a great deal less patient with the results of the accident than Charles." Erik cleared his throat a little. "The best I'll offer is to push your chair."

"Which I will accept most gratefully, as well as Hank's caveats. Perhaps we can stop by and beg lunch out of someone on the way." _Perhaps you can just stay and curl up with me instead of bothering to go back to your own room._

 _I think my bed is bigger._ It wasn't an argument against what Charles was saying, though.

"No straining yourselves and plenty of rest," Hank was saying. "Your body is putting a great deal of energy into recovery. Just because you're conscious doesn't mean you're ready for a fight."

 _I could argue that._

 _Well. There's fighting, and then there's..._ Charles nodded seriously. "We'll do our best to obey all of your edicts, Hank."

"Good. If you have any pain, any twinges..." Hank sighed. "I'm sure you'll saw your wounds open with a rusty spoon. Out of my sight."

Erik swallowed a laugh, and leaned on the handles of Charles's wheelchair, more for himself than to start moving it forward.

"You'd think that he knows us." Entirely too well. They might in fact do so if the need arose.

Given his current relationship with the X-men, Erik was inclined to say that Charles was more likely to do it just then than he was. The present still felt intangible, though, and he was tired of fighting. It was why he was in Utopia in the first place, lending what aid he could.

Pushing Charles through the hallways, skirting the areas that were populated until he reached the door to Charles's room was easy. The door had enough metal in it that he could push it open effortlessly and wheel Charles into the room, allowing it to shut behind them with just as much ease

It took a few moments for Charles to shift comfortably from the chair to the bed, and by the time he did, he looked drawn. "You're more than welcome to lie down with me, as I'm sure you know. In fact, it would be greatly appreciated." It would be nothing more than lying there. They both knew that.

He hated recuperating from illness, injury, weakness, anything. He hated not being at full strength even though how he defined full strength over the years had waxed and waned as often as Charles's ability to walk. "I think I will." It was a truce though neither of them had declared it and neither needed to. He still felt shaken after being severed from what had seemed so real, except for one or two things and the heavy realness of recreating his helmet. It was funny, feeling that the absence of Charles's thoughts made him lonely instead of secure. Nothing had changed, and so had everything.

"It's difficult, I suppose. I'll do my best to keep my thoughts to myself if it will help."

"I don't think it will." Erik shrugged and carefully pulled his shirt up over his head. After all, handing over the helmet had been what had gotten the X-Men to accept his presence on Utopia. He didn't need it, and he was still aware when people were probing at his mind. "I can't go back to where we were when I volunteered to transport you to New York."

Volunteered. At the time, he'd wanted to be sure that Charles wasn't doing something of which he might disapprove. "No. Neither can I, and I think perhaps that's a good thing. Good for us, good for..." The children. They'd probably always be the children to Charles, and to him in some ways. "...the rest of Utopia, most likely."

Erik made an agreeing noise, and lay down behind Charles, shifting onto his side and moving his legs to support him. Like he'd done decades before, because it was comfortable and after a while he'd always slept behind Charles or in front of him, but close. First because there hadn't been room in the bed for anything else, and after that, out of habit and comfort. "Tomorrow I'll see what they've done to the generators."

"Mmm." Charles was loosening, getting comfortable. "That sounds like a fine idea. Perhaps I can scare up a few students tomorrow. Try to keep busy. It does help."

"Someone else's turn to lead." But they could teach, and rest, and try to recover. It wasn't going to be easy, but nothing so far had been. There was no reason to expect anything different now.

Now, the humans would have to come to them, and they'd be ready.


End file.
